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And when we came at last to meet,
She answered and she did not smile, But oh, her voice, - her voice so sweet,
“ Down to St. Irénée,"
And so passed on to walk her mile, And left the lonely road to me.
A LITTLE SONG
CITY about whose brow the north winds
blow, Girdled with woods and shod with river
foam, Called by a name as old as Troy or Rome, Be great as they but pure as thine own
snow; Rather flash up amid the auroral glow, The Lamia city of the northern star, Than be so hard with craft or wild with
war, Peopled with deeds remembered for their Thou art too bright for guile, too young for
tears, And thou wilt live to be too strong for
Time; For he may mock thee with his furrowed
frowns, But thou wilt grow in calm throughout the
years, Cinctured with peace and crowned with
power sublime, The maiden queen of all the towered towns.
THE sunset in the rosy west
Burned soft and high ; A shore-lark fell like a stone to his nest
In the waving rye.
A wind came over the garden beds
From the dreamy lawn,
The poppies began to yawn.
Only his gentle breath :
For the rose it was only death.
And only one death to die : Good-morrow, new world, have you nothing
to give ? Good-bye, old world, good-bye.
AT THE CEDARS
You had two girls - Baptiste -
AT LES ÉBOULEMENTS
The whole drive was jammed,
THE bay is set with ashy sails,
With purple shades that fade and flee, And curling by in silver wales
The tide is straining from the sea. The grassy points are slowly drowned,
The water laps and overrolls The wicker pêche ; with shallow sound
A light wave labors on the shoals.
We worked three days — not a budge! “She's as tight as a wedge On the ledge,” Says our foreman : “Mon Dieu ! boys, look here, We must get this thing clear.”