WHOSE

I

HOSE furthest footsteps never strayed
Beyond the village of his birth

Is but a lodger for the night.

In this old wayside inn of earth.

342.

To-morrow he shall take his pack,
And set out for the ways beyond
On the old trail from star to star,
An alien and a vagabond.

II

If any record of our names

Be blown about the hills of time,
Let no one sunder us in death,
The man of paint, the men of rhyme.

Of all our good, of all our bad,
This one thing only is of worth, –
We held the league of heart to heart
The only purpose of the earth.

MADISON CAWEIN

To a Wind-Flower

1865-1914

TEACH me the secret of thy loveliness,

That, being made wise, I may aspire to be

As beautiful in thought, and so express

Immortal truths to earth's mortality;

Though to my soul ability be less

Than 'tis to thee, O sweet anemone.

Teach me the secret of thy innocence,
That in simplicity I may grow wise,
Asking from Art no other recompense
Than the approval of her own just eyes;
may I rise to some fair eminence,

So

Though less than thine, O cousin of the skies.

Teach me these things, through whose high knowledge,

I,

When Death hath poured oblivion through my veins, And brought me home, as all are brought, to lie

In that vast house, common to serfs and Thanes, I shall not die, I shall not utterly die,

For beauty born of beauty that remains.

WITH eyes hand-arched he looks into

The morning's face, then turns away

With schoolboy feet, all wet with dew,
Out for a holiday.

The hill brook sings, incessant stars,
Foam-fashioned, on its restless breast;
And where he wades its water-bars
Its song is happiest.

A comrade of the chinquapin,

He looks into its knotted eyes

And sees its heart; and, deep within,

Its soul that makes him wise.

The wood-thrush knows and follows him,

Who whistles up the birds and bees;

And round him all the perfumes swim
Of woodland loam and trees.

344.

Where'er he pass, the supple springs'
Foam-people sing the flowers awake;
And sappy lips of bark-clad things
Laugh ripe each fruited brake.

His touch is a companionship;
His word, an old authority:
He comes, a lyric at his lip,
Unstudied Poesy.

Dirge

WHAT shall her silence keep

Under the sun?

Here, where the willows weep

And waters run;

Here, where she lies asleep,

And all is done.

Lights, when the tree-top swings;

Scents that are sown;

Sounds of the wood-bird's wings;

And the bee's drone:

These be her comfortings

Under the stone.

What shall watch o'er her here

When day is fled?

Here, when the night is near

And skies are red;

Here, where she lieth dear

And young and dead.