And those who mourned her winsome face

Found in its stead a swift successor And loved another in her place –

All, save the silent old professor.

But, in the tender twilight gray,

Shut from the sight of carping critic, His lonely thoughts would often stray From Vedic verse and tongues Semitic, Bidding the ghost of vanished hope Mock with its past the sad possessor Of the dead spray of heliotrope That once she gave the old profes

sor.

WONDERLAND

SWEET eyes by sorrow still unwet,
To you the world is radiant yet,
A palace-hall of splendid truth
Touched by the golden haze of youth,
Where hopes and joys are ever rife
Amid the mystery of life;
And seeking all to understand,
The world to you is Wonderland.

I turn and watch with unshed tears
The furrowed track of ended years;
I see the eager hopes that wane,
The joys that die in deathless pain,
The coward Faith that falsehoods shake,
The souls that faint, the hearts that break,
The Truth by livid lips bemoaned,

The Right defiled, the Wrong enthroned,
And, striving still to understand,

The world to me is Wonderland.

A little time, then by and by
The puzzled thought itself shall die.
When, like the throb of distant drums,
The call inevitable comes

To blurring brain and weary limb,
And when the aching eyes grow dim,

And fast the gathering shadows creep
To lull the drowsy sense asleep,
We two shall slumber hand in hand
To wake, perhaps, in Wonderland.

THE OTHER ONE

SWEET little maid with winsome eyes That laugh all day through the tangled hair;

Gazing with baby looks so wise
Over the arm of the oaken chair,
Dearer than you is none to me,
Dearer than you there can be none;
Since in your laughing face I see
Eyes that tell of another one.

Here where the firelight softly glows,
Sheltered and safe and snug and warm,
What to you is the wind that blows,
Driving the sleet of the winter storm?
Round your head the ruddy light

Glints on the gold from your tresses

spun,

But deep is the drifting snow to-night Over the head of the other one.

Hold me close as you sagely stand,
Watching the dying embers shine;
Then shall I feel another hand
That nestled once in this hand of mine;
Poor little hand, so cold and chill,
Shut from the light of stars and sun,
Clasping the withered roses still

That hide the face of the sleeping one.

Laugh, little maid, while laugh you may,
Sorrow comes to us all, I know;
Better perhaps for her to stay
Under the robe of drifting snow.
Sing while you may your baby songs,
Sing till your baby days are done;
But oh the ache of the heart that longs
Night and day for the other one!

ALAS! that men must see

Love, before Death! Else they content might be

With their short breath; Aye, glad, when the pale sun Showed restless Day was done, And endless Rest begun.

Glad, when with strong, cool hand Death clasped their own,

And with a strange command

Hushed every moan;
Glad to have finished pain,
And labor wrought in vain,
Blurred by Sin's deepening stain.

But Love's insistent voice
Bids Self to flee -
“Live that I may rejoice,

Live on, for me!"

So, for Love's cruel mind,
Men fear this Rest to find,
Nor know great Death is kind!

SENT WITH A ROSE TO A
YOUNG LADY

DEEP in a Rose's glowing heart
I dropped a single kiss,

And then I bade it quick depart,
And tell my Lady this:

"The love thy Lover tried to send O'erflows my fragrant bowl,

But my soft leaves would break and bend,

Should he send half the whole !"

CANDLEMAS

O HEARKEN, all ye little weeds

That lie beneath the snow,

(So low, dear hearts, in poverty so low!)
The sun hath risen for royal deeds,
A valiant wind the vanguard leads;
Now quicken ye, lest unborn seeds
Before ye rise and blow.

O furry living things, adream

On Winter's drowsy breast,

(How rest ye there, how softly, safely rest !)

Arise and follow where a gleam
Of wizard gold unbinds the stream,
And all the woodland windings seem
With sweet expectance blest.

My birds, come back! the hollow sky Is weary for your note. (Sweet-throat, come back! O liquid, mellow throat!)

Ere May's soft minions hereward fly,
Shame on ye, laggards, to deny
The brooding breast, the sun-bright eye,
The tawny, shining coat!

TRILBY

O LIVING image of eternal youth! Wrought with such large simplicity of truth

That, now the pattern's made and on the shelf,

Each vows he might have cut it for himself;

Nor marvels that we sang of empty days,
Of rank-grown laurel and unpruned bays,
While yet, in all this lonely Crusoe land,
The Trilby footprint had not touched the
sand.

Here's a new carelessness of Titan play.
Here's Ariel's witchery to lead the way
In such sweet artifice of dainty wit
That men shall die with imitating it.
Now every man's old grief turus in its
bed,

And bleeds a drop or two, divinely red;
Fair baby joys do rouse them, one by

one,

Dancing a lightsome round, though love be done;

And Memory takes off her frontlet dim
To bind a bit of tinsel round the rim.
Dreams come to life, and faint foreshadow-
ings

Flutter anear us on reluctant wings.
But not one pang, nay, though 't were gall
of bliss,

And not one such awakening would we miss.

O comrades, here's true stuff! ours to adore,

And swear we'll carve our cherry-stones

no more.

CLOISTERED

SEAL thou the window! Yea, shut out the light

And bar my door to all the airs of spring. Yet in my cell, concealed from curious sight,

Here will I sit and sing.

Deaf, blind, and wilt Thou have me dumb,

also,

Telling in silence these sad beads of days? So let it be: though no sweet numbers flow, My breath shall be Thy praise.

Yea, though Thou slay the life wherein

men see

The upward-mounting flame, the failing spark,

My heart of love, that heart Thou gavest

me,

Shall beat on in the dark.

LIFE

WHAT, comrade of a night,
No sooner meet than fight?
Before the word, the blow?
Well, be it so.

Yet think not Thou I yield,
Lost on a lonely field.
Lo! to my fainting breath,
My champion, Death!