Sing flutes of harvest Where men rejoice; Sing rounds of reapers,— And my Love's voice.

But when comes Winter
With hail and storm,

And red fire roaring

And ingle warm,—

Sing first sad going

Of friends that part; Then sing glad meeting,—

And my Love's heart.

THE PARADOX OF TIME.

(A VARIATION ON RONSARD.)

"Le temps s'en va, le temps s'en va, ma dame! Las! le temps non: mais NOUS nous en allons!

~IME goes, you say? Ah no!

T

Alas, Time stays, we go;

Or else, were this not so,
What need to chain the hours,

For Youth were always ours?
Time goes, you say?—ah no!

Ours is the eyes' deceit

Of men whose flying feet

Lead through some landscape low ;

We pass, and think we see

The earth's fixed surface flee :

Alas, Time stays,—we go!

Once in the days of old,

Your locks were curling gold,

And mine had shamed the crow.

Now, in the self-same stage,

We've reached the silver age;

Time goes, you say?—ah no!

"

snow ";

Once, when my voice was strong,
I filled the woods with song

The hopes we used to know; Where are our old desires ?— Ah, where those vanished fires? Time goes, you say?—ah no!

How far, how far, O Sweet,
The pass behind our feet

Lies in the even-glow!

Now, on the forward way,
Let us fold hands, and pray;

Alas, Time stays,we go!