DESTINY. But.. I wonder what day of the week, THREE roses, wan as moonlight and I wonder what month of the year. weighed down UNSUNG. As sweet as the breath that goes In slumber, a hundred times I strive, but I strive in vain, RENCONTRE. TOILING across the Mer de Glace What miles of land and sea! My foe, undreamed of, at my side THE FADED violet. WHAT thought is folded in thy leaves! What tender thought, what speechless pain! I hold thy faded lips to mine, I hold thy faded lips to mine, Of something wilted like thy leaves; That found thee when thy dewy mouth Was purpled as with stains of wine- That thou shouldst live when I am dead, When hate is dead, for me, and wrong, For this, I use my subtlest art, AFTER THE RAIN. THE rain has ceased, and in my room The thin swift pinion cleaving Fairer it looked than when upon the through the gray. Till we awake ill fate can do no ill The resting heart shall not take up again The heavy load that yet must make it bleed; For this brief space the loud world's voice is still, No faintest echo of it brings us pain. How will it be when we shall sleep indeed? MASKS. Black Tragedy lets slip her grim disguise And shows you laughing lips and roguish eyes; But when, unmasked, gay Comedy appears, How wan her cheeks are, and what heavy tears! THE ROSE. Fixed to her necklace, like another gem, A rose she wore the flower June made for her; stem, And must, indeed, have been much happier. MAPLE LEAVES. October turned my maple's leaves to gold; The most are gone now; here and there one lingers; Soon these will slip from out the twigs' weak hold, Like coins between a dying miser's fingers. TO ANY РОЕТ. Out of the thousand verses you have writ, If Time spare none, you will not care at all; If Time spare one, you will not know of it: Nor shame nor fame can scale a churchyard wall. CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER. THE BURIAL OF MOSES. "And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against Beth-peor; but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day." By Nebo's lonely mountain, On this side Jordan's wave, In a vale in the land of Moab There lies a lonely grave. And no man knows that sepulchre, And no man saw it e'er, For the angels of God upturned the sod And laid the dead man there. That was the grandest funeral Comes back when night is done, And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek Grows into the great sun. Noiselessly as the spring-time Her crown of verdure weaves, And all the trees on all the hills Open their thousand leaves; So without sound of music, Or voice of them that wept, And the kine's keeper, came Ill knows, the joy that sinks- Ages have fled since then: But deem not my pierced trunk And scanty leafage serve And there hath pass'd from me Into the minds of men: ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN. ENDURANCE. How much the heart may bear, and yet not break! How much the flesh may suffer, and not die! I question much if any pain or ache Of soul or body brings our end more nigh; Death chooses his own time; till that is sworn, All evils may be borne. We shrink and shudder at the surgeon's knife. Each nerve recoiling from the cruel steel Whose edge seems searching for the quivering life, Yet to our sense the bitter pangs reveal, That still, although the trembling flesh be torn, This also can be borne. We see a sorrow rising in our way, And try to flee from the approaching ill; We seek some small escape; we weep and pray; |