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 pansies nodded their purple heads,
The poppies began to yawn.

One pansy said: It is only sleep,
Only his gentle breath:

But a rose lay strewn in a snowy heap,
For the rose it was only death.

Heigho, we've only one life to live,
And only one death to die :
Good-morrow, new world, have you nothing

to give?

Good-bye, old world, good-bye.

AT LES ÉBOULEMENTS

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.

INVINCIBLE

ENVOY

WHY, let them rail! God's full anointed

ones

Have heard the world exclaim, "We know you not!"

WHEN you and I have played the little hour,

Have seen the tall subaltern Life to Death

Us nearer to the wonder of the suns.
Yet, who can stay the passage of the stars?
Who can prevail against the thunder-
sound?

The wire that flashes lightning to the ground
Diverts, but not its potency debars.

So, men may strike quick stabs at Cæsar's worth,

They only make his life an endless force, 'Scaped from its penthouse, flashing through the earth,

And whelming those who railed about his

corse.

Men's moods disturb not those born truly great:

They know their end; they can afford to wait.

The

the breath,

first long breath of freedom; when the flower

Of Recompense hath fluttered to our

feet,

As to an actor's ; and the curtain down,
We turn to face each other all alone-
Alone, we two, who never yet did meet,
Alone, and absolute, and free: oh, then,
Oh, then, most dear, how shall be told the
tale ?

Clasped hands, pressed lips, and so clasped hands again;

No words. But as the proud wind fills the sail,

My love to yours shall reach, then one deep moan

Of joy; and then our infinite Alone.

THE SONG MY PADDLE SINGS

WEST wind, blow from your prairie nest, Blow from the mountains, blow from the

west.

The sail is idle, the sailor too;

O wind of the west, we wait for you!
Blow, blow!

I have wooed you so,
But never a favor you bestow.
You rock your cradle the hills between,
But scorn to notice my white lateen.

I stow the sail and unship the mast:

I wooed you long, but my wooing's past;
My paddle will lull you into rest:
O drowsy wind of the drowsy west,
Sleep, sleep!

By your mountains steep,

Or down where the prairie grasses sweep, Now fold in slumber your laggard wings, For soft is the song my paddle sings.