There is a music fills

The oaks of Belmont and the Wayland hills
Southward to Dewing's little bubbly stream,
The heavenly weather's call! O, who alive
Hastes not to start, delays not to arrive,
Having free feet that never felt a gyve
Weigh, even in a dream?

But thou, instead, hast found

The sunless April uplands underground,
And still, wherever thou art, I must be.
My beautiful! arise in might and mirth,
For we were tameless travellers from our birth;
Arise against thy narrow door of earth,
And keep the watch for me.

299.

Two Epitaphs

I

TWO white heads the grasses cover;
Dorcas, and her lifelong lover.
While they graced their country closes
Simply as the brooks and roses,

Where was lot so poor, so trodden,

But they cheered it of a sudden?
Fifty years at home together,

Hand in hand, they went elsewhither,

Then first leaving hearts behind
Comfortless. Be thou as kind.

II

Praise thou the Mighty Mother for what is wrought,

not me,

A nameless nothing-caring head asleep against her knee.

A MAN said unto his angel;

"My spirits are fallen through,
And I cannot carry this battle;
O brother, what shall I do?

"The terrible Kings are on me,
With spears that are deadly bright,
Against me so from the cradle
Do fate and my fathers fight."

Then said to the man his angel:
"Thou wavering, foolish soul,
Back to the ranks! What matter
To win or to lose the whole,

"As judged by the little judges
Who hearken not well, nor see?
Not thus by the other issue,
The Wise shall interpret thee.

Thy will is the very, the only,
The solemn event of things;
The weakest of hearts defying
Is stronger than all these Kings.

"Though out of the past they gather,
Mind's Doubt and bodily Pain,
And pallid Thirst of the Spirit
That is kin to the other twain,

"And Grief, in a cloud of banners,
And ringletted Vain Desires,

And Vice, with the spoils upon him
Of thee and thy beaten sires,

"While Kings of eternal evil
Yet darken the hills about,
Thy part is with broken sabre
To rise on the last redoubt;

"To fear not sensible failure,
Nor covet the game at all,
But fighting, fighting, fighting,
Die, driven against the wall!"

301.

FLORENCE EARLE COATES

The World Is Mine

FOR me the jasmine buds unfold

And silver daisies star the lea, The crocus hoards the sunset gold, And the wild rose breathes for me.

I feel the sap through the bough returning,

I share the skylark's transport fine,

I know the fountain's wayward yearning;

I love, and the world is mine!

1850-1927

I love, and thoughts that sometime grieved, Still well remembered, grieve not me;

From all that darkened and deceived

Upsoars my spirit free.

For soft the hours repeat one story, Sings the sea one strain divine,

My clouds arise all flushed with glory; I love, and the world is mine!

302.

The Morning Glory

AS it worth while to paint so fair

WAS

Thy every leaf· to vein with faultless art Each petal, taking the boon light and air

Of summer so to heart?

To bring thy beauty unto perfect flower,
Then, like a passing fragrance or a smile,
Vanish away, beyond recovery's power-
Was it, frail bloom, worth while?

Thy silence answers: "Life was mine!

And I, who pass without regret or grief,

Have cared the more to make my moment fine,
Because it was so brief.

"In its first radiance I have seen

I

The sun!—why tarry then till comes the night? go my way, content that I have been

Part of the morning light!

303.

EDITH MATILDA THOMAS

Isaiah xxxviii. 15

The Quiet Pilgrim

WHEN on my soul in nakedness

WHEN

His swift, avertless hand did press,
Then I stood still, nor cried aloud,
Nor murmured low in ashes bowed;
And, since my woe is utterless,
To supreme quiet I am vowed;
Afar from me be moan and tears,
I shall go softly all my years.

Whenso my quick, light-sandaled feet
Bring me where Joys and Pleasures meet,
I mingle with their throng at will;
They know me not an alien still,
Since neither words nor ways unsweet

Of stored bitterness I spill;

1854-1925

Youth shuns me not, nor gladness fears,

For I go softly all my years.

Whenso I come where Griefs convene,

And in my ear their voice is keen,
They know me not, as on I glide,
That with Arch Sorrow I abide.
They haggard are, and drooped of mien,
And round their brows have cypress tied:
Such shows I leave to light Grief's peers,
I shall go softly all my years.