A haunting mermaid mid the swell And rapture of that summer sea; A siren of elusive spell,

Born of the womb of mystery,—

That, airy-limbed, swims fancy free, Glad in the summer's perfect prime, Full-veined with life's felicity

And faith that knows no winter-time.

At eve, when firefly lustre burns

On that green flood like mirrored stars, Against the hush her faint voice yearns, Breathed to a light harp's happy bars.

Till sinks at last in sunset slow Midsummer's long, luxurious day,

And amber-red the ripe waves glow,
Ah, then it is she slips away!

For with the blighting dog-star's blaze,
The reapers wade within the wheat,
And as they work in harvest ways,
What amorous sights their vision cheat!

For lo, upon some eddying wash
Or hollow of the wind-swept grain,
Her wafted fingers foam-like flash,
Her laughing body drifts amain.

It is the sylph's divine farewell;
A sighing ebbs along the wheat;
Borne onward by a golden swell,

She fades into the wrinkling heat.

O Earth, O Sky, your use is done, Take care of me.

PROCESSIONAL1

My love leads the white bulls to sacrifice.

He is white, and he leans against their folded necks.

Blue is the sky behind them, and the dust from the highway yellows his ivory limbs.

He leans and moves, restraining, yet drawn on by tossing heads.

He feels the festal music; rapid and strong are his arms and breast;

Yet from his waist beneath, loose and slow is his resting pace,

Flowers are in his hair, and he is fair.
He thinks he is but strong; he can over-

come,

And his mind sees only the impatient horns; But my heart sees his slimness, and would care for him like a mother.

My love leads the white bulls to sacrifice.

Gray, heavy clouds muffled the valleys, And the peaks looked toward God alone.

"O Master, that movest the wind with a finger,

Humble, idle, futile peaks are we. Grant that we may run swiftly across the world

To huddle in worship at Thy feet."