WILLIAM WINTER. Only this our yearning answers, -whereso'er that way defile, Not a film shall part us through the æons of that mighty while, In the fair eternal weather, even as phantoms still together, Floating, floating, one forever, in the And let me know my soul akin light of God's great smile! SONG. IN the summer twilight, While yet the dew was hoar, I went plucking purple pansies Till my love should come to shore. The fishing-lights their dances Were keeping out at sea, And, "Come," I sang, "my true love, Come hasten home to me!" But the sea it fell a-moaning, And the white gulls rocked thereon, And the young moon dropped from heaven, And the lights hid, one by one. All silently their glances Slipped down the cruel sea, And, "Wait," cried the night and wind and storm, "Wait till I come to thee." To sunrise and the winds of morn, And every grandeur that has been Since this all-glorious world was born, Nor longer droop in my own scorn. Come, when the way grows dark and chill, Which used in happier days to speak, Come with a smile that dims the sun! With pitying heart and gentle hand! And waft me, from a work that's done, To peace that waits on thy command, In God's mysterious better land! WILLIAM WINTER. [U. s. A.] AZRAEL. COME with a smile, when come thou must, Evangel of the world to be, And touch and glorify this dust, This shuddering dust that now is me, Long in those awful eyes I quail, That gaze across the grim profound: Upon that sea there is no sail, Nor any light, nor any sound, Only two still and steady rays, A weakness for the weaker side, A palm not far held out a hand; No sod, no sign, no cross nor stone, But at his side a cactus green Upheld its lances long and keen; It stood in hot red sands alone, Flat-palmed and fierce with lifted spears; One bloom of crimson crowned its head, A drop of blood, so bright, so red, Yet redolent as roses' tears. In my left hand I held a shell, All rosy lipped and pearly red; I laid it by his lowly bed, For he did love so passing well The grand songs of the solemn sea. O shell! sing well, wild, with a will, When storms blow hard and birds be still, The wildest sea-song known to thee! I said some things, with folded hands, Brave old water-dogs, wed to the sea, First to their labors and last to their rests. Ships are moving! I hear a horn; Over the sea, and reaching away, And I catch a breath like the breath of day. The east is blossoming! Yea, a rose, SUNRISE IN VENICE. NIGHT seems troubled and scarce asleep; White as my lilies that grow in the west. breasts; Barefooted fishermen seeking their boats, Brown as walnuts and hairy as goats, UNKNOWN. DIFFERENT POINTS OF VIEW. SAITH the white owl to the martin folk, In the belfry tower so grim and gray: "Why do they deafen us with these bells? Is any one dead or born to-day?" A martin peeped over the rim of its nest, And answered crossly: "Why, ain't you heard That an heir is coming to the great estate?" "I 'ave n't," the owl said, "pon my word.' |