A little time for saying

Words the heart breaks to say,

A short, sharp time wherein to pray, Then no more need for praying;

But long, long years to weep in,
And comprehend the whole

Great grief that desolates the soul,
And eternity to sleep in.

PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.

THE SICK MAN AND THE BIRDS.

THE SICK MAN.

PRING,-art thou come, O Spring!
I am too sick for words;
How hast thou heart to sing,

O Spring, with all thy birds?

THE BLACKBIRD.

I sing for joy to see again
The merry leaves along the lane,

The little bud grown ripe ;

And look, my love upon the bough!
Hark, how she calleth to me now,-

"Pipe! Pipe!"

THE SICK MAN.

Ah! weary is the sun;

Love is an idle thing:
But, Bird, thou restless one,

What ails thee, wandering?

THE SWALLOW.

By shore and sea I come and go,

To seek I know not what-and lo! On no man's eaves I sit

But voices bid me rise once more,

To flit again by sea and shore,

"Flit! Flit!"

THE SICK MAN.

This is Earth's bitter cup :—
Only to seek, not know.
But Thou, that strivest up,
Why dost thou carol so?

THE LARK.

A secret Spirit gifteth me

With song, and wing that lifteth me,
A Spirit for whose sake,

Striving amain to reach the sky,
Still to the old dark earth I cry—

"Wake! Wake!"

THE SICK MAN.

My hope hath lost its wing.

Thou, that to Night dost call, How hast thou heart to sing,

Thy tears made musical ?

To me, dim shapes of ancient crime

Moan through the windy ways of Time, "Wail! wail!"

THE SICK MAN.

Thine is the sick man's song,—

Mournful, in sooth, and fit; Unrest that cries "How long?" And the Night answers it.

AUSTIN DOBSON.

REST

HEN the tumult of day is done,
And the winds are at rest,
When the glory is all but gone
In the wonderful west.

Why, heart, is thy trouble so deep?
Why, spirit, thy care?

Full soon thou shalt quieter sleep

Than the quietest there.

JAMES RHOADES.