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Or poems there are countless thousands.

Of books of selected poems there are hundreds.

In this unpretentious book the editor has given preference to, first, short poems; second, popular poems appealing to the greatest number of readers; third, poems not contained in other collections.

Many of the poems will be new to most readers, and some will be recognized as old favourites. The editor has been unable to find the authorship of some fugitive pieces, and in others he may have given credit in error. He would be glad in future editions to correct any such emissions or mistakes.




BIRDS are singing round my window,
Songs the sweetest ever heard,
And I hang my cage there daily,
But I never catch a bird.

So with thoughts my brain is teeming,
And they sing there all day long;
But they never fold their pinions
In the little cage of song.



"WIFE," he said, "come sit by me;
Put your hand in mine and lay
Your dear head upon my breast,
Listening to what I say.

"I have striven to lay by
Something for a rainy day,
But misfortune's come, and now
Ev'rything is swept away.'

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Crept the true wife closer still-
Kissed his troubled cheek and said:

"Life has sadder losses, dear,

So, I pray, be comforted.

"Loss of love we could not bear;
Such a loss is worse than death.
We might lose each other, dear,-
Think," she said below her breath.
"Thank God 'tis no worse," she cried,
With a smile. "You did forget
What unreckoned wealth is ours
Since we have each other yet."



LIFE is the seed one soweth,
Song is the springing flower;
Life is the tear that floweth,
Song is the happy hour.

For as the seed must tarry
Under the chilly mould,
Only to swell and carry
Savour in every fold;

And as the tear prepareth
Hearts for the coming bliss,
And by the pain it beareth
Widens the soul for this;

So will a seed of sorrow
Blossom my life along;
So will a tearful morrow
Write me a deeper song.

-Richard E. Burton.


LIKE music heard on the still water,
Like pines when the wind passeth by,
Like pearls in the depth of the ocean,
Like stars that enamel the sky,
Like June and the odour of roses,
Like dew and the freshness of morn,
Like sunshine that kisses the clover,
Like tassels of silk on the corn,

Like notes of the thrush in the woodland,
Like brooks where the violets grow,
Like rainbows that arch the blue heavens,
Like clouds when the sun dippeth low,
Like dreams of Acadian pleasures,
Like colours that gratefully blend,
Like everything breathing of pureness,
Like these, is the love of a friend.

--Josephine Canning,

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