And roaring loud--they linger’d long and late;
Harsh was the clang of the last homeward gate
That latch’d itself behind them, as they pass’d--
Then kiss’d and parted. Soon her funeral knell
Toll’d from a foreign clime; he did not talk
Nor weep, but shudder’d at that stern farewell;
’Twas the last gate in all their lovers’-walk
Without the kiss beyond it! Was it good
To leave him thus, alone with his sad mood
In that dear footpath, haunted by her smile?
Where they had laugh’d and loiter’d, sat and stood?
Alone in life! alone in Moreham wood!
Through all that sweet, forsaken, forest mile!
CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER.
IRISH LOVE SONG.
Would God I were the tender apple-blossom,
Floating and falling from the twisted bough,
To lie and faint within your silken bosom,
As that does now!
Or would I were a little burnished apple
For you to pluck me, gliding by so cold,
While sun and shade your robe of lawn will dapple,
Your hair’s spun gold.
Yea, would to God I were among the roses
That lean to kiss you as you float between!
While on the lowest branch a bud uncloses
To touch you, Queen!
Nay, since you will not love, would I were growing
A happy daisy in the garden path;
That so your silver foot might press me going,
Even unto death!
KATHERINE TYNAN.
GOOD-NIGHT.
It is over now, she is gone to rest;
I have clasped the hands on the quiet breast;
Draw back the curtain, let in the light,
She will never shrink if it be too bright.
We were two in here but an hour gone by,
No streak was then in the midnight sky;
Now I am one to watch the day
Come glimmering up from the far-away.
What will he say when he comes in,
Waked by the city’s morning din,
Hoping to find and fearing to know
The sorrow he left but an hour ago?
What will he say who has watched so long,
When he shall find who has come and gone?
Come a watcher that will not bide
Love’s morning or noon or eventide.
He thought to kiss her by morning gray,
But God has thought to take her away.
What will he say? God knows, not I;
“Good-night,” he said, but never “good-bye.”
C. C. FRASER TYTLER.
I KNOW ’TIS LATE, BUT LET ME STAY.
I know ’tis late, but let me stay,
For night is tenderer than day;
Sweet love, dear love, I cannot go;
Dear love, sweet love, I love thee so.
The birds are in the grove asleep,
The katydids shrill concert keep,
The woodbine breathes a fragrance rare
To please the dewy, languid air,
The fireflies twinkle in the vale,
The river shines in moonlight pale:
See yon bright star! choose it for thine,
And call its near companion mine;
Yon air-spun lace above the moon,--
’Twill veil her radiant beauty soon;
And look! a meteor’s dreamy light
Streams mystic through the solemn night.
Ah, life glides swift, like that still fire--
How soon our gleams of joy expire!
Who can be sure the present kiss
Is not his last? Make all of this.
I know ’tis late, dear love, I know,
Dear love, sweet love, I love thee so.
It cannot be the stealthy day
That turns the orient darkness gray;
Heardst thou? I thought or feared I heard
Vague twitters of some wakeful bird.
Nay, ’twas but summer in her sleep
Low murmuring from the leafy deep.
Fantastic mist obscurely fills
The hollows of Kentucky hills.
The wings of night are swift indeed!
Why makes the jealous morn such speed?
This rose thou wear’st may I not take
For passionate remembrance’ sake?
Press with thy lips its crimson heart.
Yes, blushing rose, we must depart.
A rose cannot return a kiss--
I pay its due with this, and this.
The stars grow faint, they soon will die,
But love fades not nor fails. Good-bye!
Unhappy joy--delicious pain--
We part in love, we meet again.
Good-bye! the morning dawns--I go;
Dear love, sweet love, I love thee so.
WILLIAM H. VENABLE.
CASHEL OF MUNSTER.
I would wed you, dear, without gold or gear, or counted kine;
My wealth you’ll be, would your friends agree, and you be mine.
My grief, my gloom! that you do not come, my heart’s dear hoard!
To Cashel fair, though our couch were there but a soft deal board.
Oh, come, my bride, o’er the wild hill-side to the valley low!
A downy bed for my love I’ll spread where waters flow,
And we shall stray where streamlets play, the groves among,
Where echo tells to the listening dells the blackbird’s song.
Love tender, true, I gave to you, and secret sighs,
In hope to see upon you and me one hour arise,
When the priest’s blest voice would bind my choice and the ring’s
strict tie,
If wife you be, love, to one but me, love, in grief I’ll die!
A neck of white has my heart’s delight, and breast like snow,
And flowing hair whose ringlets fair to the green grass flow,
Alas! that I did not early die, before the day
That saw me here, from my bosom’s dear, far, far away!
EDWARD WALSH.
DAFFODILS.
I question with the amber daffodils,
Sheeting the floors of April, how she fares;
Where king-cup buds gleam out between the rills,
And celandine in wide gold beadlets glares.
By pastured brows and swelling hedgerow bowers,
From crumpled leaves the primrose bunches slip,
My hot face roll’d in their faint-scented flowers,
I dream her rich cheek rests against my lip.
All weird sensations of the fervent prime
Are like great harmonies, whose touch can move
The glow of gracious impulse: thought and time
Renew my love with life, my life with love.
When this old world new-born puts glories on,
I cannot think she never will be won.
JOHN LEICESTER WARREN.
AVE ATQUE VALE.
Farewell my Youth! for now we needs must part,
For here the paths divide;
Here hand from hand must sever, heart from heart,--
Divergence deep and wide.
You’ll wear no withered roses for my sake,
Though I go mourning for you all day long,
Finding no magic more in bower and brake,
No melody in song.
Gray Eld must travel in my company
To seal this severance more fast and sure.
A joyless fellowship, i’ faith, ’twill be,
Yet must we fare together, I and he,
Till I shall tread the footpath way no more.
But when a blackbird pipes among the boughs,
On some dim iridescent day in spring,
Then I may dream you are remembering
Our ancient vows.
Or when some joy foregone, some fate forsworn
Looks through the dark eyes of the violet,
I may recross the set, forbidden bourne, I may forget
Our long, long parting for a little while,
Dream of the golden splendours of your smile,
Dream you remember yet.
ROSAMUND MARRIOT WATSON.
EPITAPH.
Now lay thee down to sleep, and dream of me;
Though thou art dead and I am living yet,
Though cool thy couch and sweet thy slumbers be,
Dream--do not quite forget.
Sleep all the autumn, all the winter long,
With never a painted shadow from the past
To haunt thee; only, when the blackbird’s song
Wakens the woods at last,
When the young shoots grow lusty overhead,
Here, where the spring sun smiles, the spring wind grieves,
When budding violets close above thee spread
Their small heart-shapen leaves,
Pass, O Belovèd, to dreams from slumber deep;
Recount the store that mellowing time endears,
Tread, through the measureless mazes of thy sleep,
Our old unchangeful years.
Lie still and listen--while thy sheltering tree
Whispers of suns that rose, of suns that set--
For far-off echoes of the spring and me.
Dream--do not quite forget.
ROSAMUND MARRIOT WATSON.
A GOLDEN HOUR.
A beckoning spirit of gladness seemed afloat,
That lightly danced in laughing air before us:
The earth was all in tune, and you a note
Of Nature’s happy chorus.
’Twas like a vernal morn, yet overhead
The leafless boughs across the lane were knitting:
The ghost of some forgotten spring, we said,
O’er winter’s world comes flitting.
Or was it spring herself, that, gone astray,
Beyond the alien frontier chose to tarry?
Or but some bold outrider of the May,
Some April emissary?
The apparition faded on the air,
Capricious and incalculable comer.--
Wilt thou too pass, and leave my chill days bare,
And fall’n my phantom summer?
WILLIAM WATSON.
AND THESE--ARE THESE INDEED THE END?
And these--are these indeed the end,
This grinning skull, this heavy loam?
Do all green ways whereby we wend
Lead but to yon ignoble home?
Ah, well! Thine eyes invite to bliss;
Thy lips are hives of summer still.
I ask not other worlds while this
Proffers me all the sweets I will.
WILLIAM WATSON.
A DREAM.
Beneath the loveliest dream there coils a fear:
Last night came she whose eyes are memories now,
Her far-off gaze seemed all-forgetful how
Love dimmed them once, so calm they shone, and clear.
“Sorrow (I said) hath made me old, my dear;
’Tis I, indeed, but grief doth change the brow;
A love like mine a seraph’s neck might bow,
Vigils like mine would blanch an angel’s hair.”
Ah! then I saw, I saw the sweet lips move!
I saw the love-mists thickening in her eyes;
I heard wild wordless melodies of love,
Like murmur of dreaming brooks in Paradise;
And when upon my neck she fell, my dove,
I knew her hair, though heavy of amaranth-spice.
THEODORE WATTS.
THE FIRST KISS.
If only in dreams may man be fully blest,
Is heav’n a dream? Is she I claspt a dream?
Or stood she here even now where dewdrops gleam,
And miles of furze shine golden down the West?
I seem to clasp her still,--still on my breast
Her bosom beats; I see the blue eyes beam:
I think she kissed these lips, for now they seem
Scarce mine, so hallow’d of the lips they press’d!
Yon thicket’s breath--can that be eglantine?
Those birds--can they be morning’s choristers?
Can this be earth? Can these be banks of furze?
Like burning bushes fired of God they shine!
I seem to know them, though this body of mine
Pass’d into spirit at the touch of hers.
THEODORE WATTS.
SUFFICIENCY.
A little love, of Heaven a little share,
And then we go--what matters it, since where,
Or when, or how, none may aforetime know,
Nor if Death cometh soon, or lingering slow,
Send on ahead his herald of Despair.
On this gray life Love lights with golden glow
Refracted from The Source, his bright wings throw
Its glory on us, if Fate grant our prayer,
A little love!
A little; ’tis as much as we can bear,
For Love is compassed with such magic air
Who breathes it fully dies; and knowing so,
The Gods all wisely but a taste bestow
For little lives; a little while they spare
A little love.
GLEESON WHITE.
BENEDICITE.
God’s love and peace be with thee, where
Soe’er this soft autumnal air
Lifts the dark tresses of thy hair!
Whether through city casements comes
Its kiss to thee, in crowded rooms,
Or, out among the woodland blooms,
It freshens o’er thy thoughtful face,
Imparting, in its glad embrace,
Beauty to beauty, grace to grace!
Fair Nature’s book together read,--
The old wood-paths that knew our tread,
The maple shadows overhead,
The hills we climbed, the river seen
By gleams along its deep ravine,--
All keep thy memory fresh and green.
Where’er I look, where’er I stray,
Thy thought goes with me on my way,
And hence the prayer I breathe to-day;
O’er lapse of time and change of scene,--
The weary waste which lies between
Thyself and me, my heart I lean.
Thou lack’st not Friendship’s spell-word, nor
The half-unconscious power to draw
All hearts to thine by Love’s sweet law.
With these good gifts of God is cast
Thy lot, and many a charm thou hast
To hold the blessed angels fast.
If, then, a fervent wish for thee
The gracious heavens will heed from me,
What should, dear heart, its burden be?
The sighing of a shaken reed,--
What can I more than meekly plead
The greatness of our common need?
God’s love,--unchanging, pure, and true,--
The Paraclete white-shining through
His peace,--the fall of Hermon’s dew!
With such a prayer, on this sweet day,
As thou mayst hear and I may say,
I greet thee, dearest, far away!
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
MY VIOLET.
When violets blue begin to blow
Among the mosses fresh and green,
That grow the woodbine roots between,
I take my Violet out, and, oh!
Those cunning violets seem to know
A sweeter than themselves is nigh;
They greet her with a beaming eye,
And brighten where her footsteps go.
When summer glories light the glade
With gloss of green and gleam of gold,
And sunny sheens in wood and wold,
She loves to linger in the shade;
And such sweet light surrounds the maid,
That, somehow, it is fairer far
Where she and those dim shadows are,
Than where the sunbeams are displayed.
When every tree relinquisheth
Its garb of green for sombre brown,
And all the leaves are falling down,
While breezes blow with angry breath,
With gentle pitying voice she saith,
“Poor leaves! I wish you would not die;”
And at the sound they peaceful lie,
And wear a pleasant calm in death.
When winter frosts hold land and sea,
And barren want and bleaker wind
Leave every thought of good behind,
I look upon my love, and she
From thrall of winter sets me free;
And with a sense of perfect rest
I lay my head upon her breast,
And twenty summers shine for me.
J. T. BURTON WOLLASTON.
ASLEEP.
Lids closed and pale, with parted lips she lay;
Black on white pillows spread her hair unbound.
Awake, I watched her sleeping face, and found
Its beauty perfect in the breaking day.
Ah, then I knew that Love had passed away;
Alas! though with the entering sun that crowned
With light the beauty that mine arms enwound,
Came too the morning music of the bay.
I wept that Love had been and was no more,
That never shower nor sunlight should restore
The love that gave her life and heart to me;
While radiant in the outburst of the dawn,
Fresh as the wind that swept the mountain lawn,
Green April wantoned on the noisy sea.
THEODORE WRATISLAW.
SWIMMING SONG.
The broad green rollers lift and glide
Beneath our hearts as, side by side,
We breast them blithely, blithely swim
Toward the far horizon’s rim.
The murmur of the land recedes,
The land of grief that aches and needs;
We only as we fall and rise
Drink deep the splendour of the skies.
O far blue heaven above our head,
O near green sea about us spread,
What joy so full, since time began,
Could earth, our mother, give to man?
Your bright face through the water peers
And laughs. “What need have men for tears?”
We say. The land is far and dim,
The world is summer’s, and we swim.
Your bright face peers and laughs. The sweet
Same joy fulfils us, hands and feet:
The same sea’s salt wet lips kiss ours:
We feel the same enraptured hours.
Out yonder! where our distant home
Beckons us from the crests of foam!
Out yonder through the roller’s mirth!
What part was ever ours with earth?
Your white limbs flash, your red lips gleam:
Love seems life’s best and holiest dream;
Nought comes between us here, and I
Could wish not otherwise to die.
With sea beneath us, heaven above,
Life holds but laughter, joy, and love;
No trammels bind us now, and we
Are freer than the birds are free.
Your face seems sweeter here; your hair,
Wet from the sea’s salt lips, more fair;
Your limbs that move and gleam and shine,
Hellenic, pagan, half divine.
If I should catch you now, make fast
Your hands with mine, about you cast
My limbs, and through the untroubled waves
Draw you down to the sea’s deep graves!
Ah, sweet! God’s gift is good enough,
God’s gift of freedom, life, and love--
Though but for this brief hour are we
Alone upon the eternal sea.
THEODORE WRATISLAW.
THE PEACE OF THE ROSE.
If Michael, leader of God’s host,
When Heaven and Hell are met,
Looked down on you from Heaven’s door-post,
He would his deeds forget.
Brooding no more upon God’s wars
In his Divine homestead,
He would go weave out of the stars
A chaplet for your head;
And all folk seeing him bow down,
And white stars tell your praise,
Would come at last to God’s great town,
Led on by gentle ways;
And God would bid his warfare cease,
Saying all things were well,
And softly make a rosy peace,
A peace of Heaven and Hell.
W. B. YEATS.
THE BRIDAL PAIR.
HE.
Though the roving bee as lightly
Sip the sweets of thyme and clover,
Though the moon of May as whitely
Silver all the greensward over,
Yet, beneath the trysting tree,
That hath been which shall not be!
SHE.
Drip the vials ne’er so sweetly
With the honey-dew of pleasure,
Trip the dancers ne’er so featly
Through the old remembered measure,
Yet, the lighted lanthorn round,
What is lost shall not be found!
WILLIAM YOUNG.
THE TRIFLERS.
HE.
Because thou wast cold and proud,
And as one alone in the crowd,
And because of thy wilful and wayward look,
I thought, as I saw thee above my book,
“I will prove if her heart be flesh or stone;”
And in seeking thine, I have found my own.
SHE.
Because thou wast proud and cold,
And because of the story told
That never had woman a smile from thee,
I thought as I glanc’d, “If he frown on me,
Why, be it so! but his peace shall atone;”
And in troubling thine, I have lost my own.
WILLIAM YOUNG.
AT THY GRAVE.
Waves the soft grass at my feet;
Dost thou feel me near thee, sweet?
Though the earth upon thy face
Holds thee close from my embrace,
Yet my spirit thine can reach,
Needs betwixt us twain no speech,
For the same soul lives in each.
Now I meet no tender eyes
Seeking mine in soft surmise
At some broken utterance faint,
Smile quick brightening, sigh half spent;
Yet in some sweet hours gone by,
No responding eye to eye
Needed we for sympathy.
Love, I seem to see thee stand
Silent in a shadowy land,
With a look upon thy face
As if even in that dull place
Distant voices smote thine ears,
Memories of vanished years,
Or faint echoes of those tears.
Yet I would not have it thus;
Then would be most piteous
Our divided lives, if thou
An imperfect bliss should know;
Sweet my suffering, if to thee
Death has brought the faculty
Of entire felicity.
Rather would I weep in vain,
That thou canst not share my pain,
Deem that Lethean waters roll
Softly o’er thy separate soul,
Know that a divided bliss
Makes thee careless of my kiss,
Than that thou shouldst feel distress.
Hush! I hear a low, sweet sound
As of music stealing round;
Forms thy hand the thrilling chords
Into more than spoken words?
Ah! ’tis but the gathering breeze
Whispering to the budding trees,
Or the song of early bees.
Love! where art thou? Canst thou not
Hear me, or is all forgot?
Seest thou not these burning tears?
Can my words not reach thine ears?
Or betwixt my soul and thine
Has some mystery divine
Sealed a separating line?
Is it thus, then, after death
Old things none remembereth?
Is the spirit henceforth clear
Of the life it gathered here?
Will our noblest longings seem
Like some disremembered dream
In the after world’s full beam?
Hark! the rainy wind blows loud,
Scuds above the hurrying cloud;
Hushed is all the song of bees;
Angry murmurs of the trees
Herald tempests. Silent yet
Sleepest thou--nor fear nor fret
Troubles thee. Can I forget?
LO! IN A DREAM LOVE CAME TO ME.
Lo! in a dream Love came to me and cried:
“The summer dawn creeps over land and sea;
The golden fields are ripe for harvest-tide,
And the grape-gatherers climb the mountain-side;
The harvest joy is come; I wait for thee.
Arise, come down, and follow, follow me.”
And I arose, went down, and followed him.
The reaper’s song went ringing through the air;
Below, the morning mists grew pale and dim,
And on the mountain ridge the sun’s bright rim
Rose swiftly, and the glorious dawn was there.
I followed, followed Love, I knew not where.
Through orange groves and orchard ways we went;
The cool fresh dew lay deep on grass and tree,
Above our heads the laden boughs were bent
With weight of ripening fruit; the faint sweet scent
Of fragrant myrtles drifted up to me:
Blindly, O Love, blindly I followed thee!
O Love, the morning shadows passed away
From off the broad fair fields of waving wheat;
I followed thee, till in the full noonday
The weary women in the vineyards lay;
The tall field flowers drooped fading in the heat:
I followed thee with bruised and bleeding feet.
Upon the long white road the fierce sun shone,
And on the distant town and wide waste plain,
O Love, I blindly, blindly followed on,
Nor knew how sharp the way my feet had gone;
Nor knew I aught of shame or loss or pain,
Nor knew I all my labour was in vain.
The sun sank down in silence o’er the land,
The heavy shadows gathered deep and black;
Across the lonely waste of reeds and sand
I followed Love: I could not touch his hand,
Nor see his hidden face, nor turn me back,
Nor find again the far-off mountain-track.
Blindly, O Love! blindly I followed thee:
The summer night lay on the silent plain,
And on the sleeping city and the sea;
The sound of rippling waves came up to me.
O Love! the dawn drew near; far off again
The gray light gathered where the night had lain.
On through the quiet street Love passed, and cried:
“The summer dawn creeps over land and sea;
Sweet is the summer and the harvest-tide;
Awake, arise, Love waits for thee, his Bride.”
And she arose and followed, followed thee,
O traitor Love! who hast forsaken me.
FRASER’S MAGAZINE.
_VALE._
_Warbleth the bird of Love his golden song,
And many hearken to his magic strain;
In joyous major now he carols strong,
In minors low he croons his soft refrain._
_So fair his lay of Love’s fond empery,
One scarce may mark the quaver of his sigh;
Or note amid his seeming ecstasy
The dream that fades, the hopes that shatter’d lie._
_But most he sings for Youth’s enraptured ear,
When hope beats fast and buds are bourgeoning,--
“Time flies,” he trills, “clasp close the fleeting year
Ere winter cometh, and sweet Love take wing!”_
INDEX
ADCOCK, A. ST. J.:
Since Yesterday....._Chambers’ Journal_
ALDRICH, ANNE REEVE:
An Awakening....._The Rose of Flame_
Love, the Destroyer.....“ “
ALDRICH, THOMAS BAILEY:
Sweetheart, Sigh no More....._Wyndham Towers_
The Faded Violet....._Poems_
ANONYMOUS:
A Song of Love....._Love lies Bleeding_
At thy Grave.
Et Melle et Felle....._Love in a Mist_
Lo! in a Dream Love came to Me....._Fraser’s Magazine_
The Lonely Landscape....._Love lies Bleeding_
The Outcast.....“ “
ARNOLD, SIR EDWIN:
Song....._The Light of Asia_
ARNOLD, MATTHEW:
Calais Sands....._Poems_
ASHE, THOMAS:
Phantoms....._Poems_
The Guest.....“
The Secret.....“
AUSTIN, ALFRED:
If Love could Last....._The Garden that I Love_
BARLOW, GEORGE:
A Journey....._Song Spray_
If only Thou art True....._From Dawn to Sunset_
The Ecstasy of the Hair....._A Life’s Love_
BEECHING, H. C.:
The Night Watches....._Love’s Looking-Glass_
BENNETT, JOHN:
In a Rose Garden....._The Chap Book_
BLIND, MATHILDE:
I charge you, O Winds of the West....._A Love Trilogy_
Song....._Love in Exile_
BOURDILLON, F. W.:
Cæli....._Ailes d’Alouette_
Love in the Heart.....“ “
BRIDGES, ROBERT:
I will not let Thee go....._The Shorter Poems_
Long are the Hours.....“ “
BROWNING, ROBERT:
Apparitions....._Poems_
Porphyria’s Lover.....“
BUNNER, H. C.:
Robin’s Song....._Airs from Arcady_
The Hour of Shadows.....“ “
CARMAN, BLISS:
Carnations in Winter....._Low Tide on Grand Pré_
The Eavesdropper.....“ “
CARPENTER, HENRY BERNARD:
The Impossible She....._A Poet’s Last Songs_
CAWEIN, MADISON:
A Dream Shape....._Undertones_
Unrequited....._Moods and Memories_
CLARKE, HERBERT E.:
In the Wood....._Songs of Exile_
COLLIER, THOMAS STEVENS:
At Love’s Gate....._Song Spray_
COLLINS, MORTIMER:
Birds and Lovers....._Selections from the Poetical Works_
Dawn.....“ “ “ “
COONLEY, LYDIA AVERY:
Love’s Power....._Under the Pines, and Other Verses_
CRANE, WALTER:
Last Night my Lady talked with Me....._Renascence_
Love’s Arrows.....“
CURWEN, HARRY:
A Love Song....._French Love Songs, and Other Poems_
CUSTANCE, OLIVE:
The Parting Hour.
DOBSON, AUSTIN:
The Sundial....._Old World Idylls, and Other Verses_
ELLWANGER, GEORGE H.:
Spring Song.
ELLWANGER, W. D.:
To Jessie’s Dancing Feet....._The Century_
GALE, NORMAN R.:
A Love Song....._Violets_
A Song.....“
GARNETT, RICHARD:
A Nocturne....._Poems_
Violets.....“
GOSSE, EDMUND WILLIAM:
A Year....._On Viol and Flute_
I’ve kissed Thee, Sweetheart....._Firdausi in Exile, and Other Poems_
GRAY, JOHN:
Complaint....._Silverpoints_
Heart’s Demesne.....“
GREENE, G. A.:
In the Evening....._Italian Lyrists of To-day_
When the Leaves Fall.....“ “ “
GREENWELL, DORA:
Qui sait aimer, sait mourir....._Poems_
GULSTON, A. STEPNEY:
Song....._Metempsychosis_
HALL, GERTRUDE:
O Knight, if Thou a Lady hast....._Verses_
HALL, WILLIAM C.:
At Last....._Songs in a Minor Key_
HANKIN, MARY L.:
The Old is Better....._Year by Year_
HENLEY, W. E.:
Ballade of Midsummer Days and Nights....._A Book of Verses_
Oh, gather me the Rose.....“ “
HICKEY, EMILY H.:
Her Dream....._Lyrics and Verse Tales_
HILDRETH, CHARLES LOTIN:
Song....._The Masque of Death, and Other Poems_
The Tryst.....“ “ “ “
HINSHELWOOD, A. ERNEST:
By one Rapt Day....._Through Starlight to Dawn_
HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL:
The Dilemma....._Poems_
HORNE, HERBERT P.:
The Measure....._Diversi Colores_
HUNT, HELEN:
Two Truths....._Verses_
IMAGE, SELWYN:
A Prayer....._Poems and Carols_
JENNER, HENRY:
A June Storm....._The Spectator_
KINGSLEY, CHARLES:
Dolcino to Margaret....._Poems_
LAMPMAN, ARCHIBALD: