'Pears ter me strange Now, when I thinks on 'em, dose olo years: Mars' George, sometimes de b'ilin' tears Fills up my eyes, Count o' de mizery now, an' de change – De sun dims, Marster, Ter an ole man, when his one boy dies. Did you say "How ?" Out in de dug-out, one moonshine night, An' yearnin' for Kree, De Lord tuk him, Marster: De green grass kivers 'em bofe f'om sight. The blood in Pickett's heart Was of a ruddier hue Than the reddest bloom whose petals part I think the fairest flowers that blow By this historic dead. The immemorial years Such valor never knew As poured a flood of crimson blood Living and dead, in faith the same, Crowned with the rosy wreath of fame Not these had made afraid Yours was the strain of high emprise, When Douglas flung the heart And said: "He leads. We do not part: No mightier impulse stirred his soul Of freedom in that fight. The fair goal was not won, The famous fight was lost; Your deeds of mighty prowess shame With which Time's bloody pages flame. Unto the dead farewell! They are hid in the dark and cold; They are deaf to the martial music's call "They perished for my sake!" Without him let the rapt earth dree What doom its twin rotations earn; Whither or whence, are naught to me, Save as his being they concern. Comets may crash, or inner fire Or earth may lose Cohesion's tire, It's naught to me if he 's not here, Lizette Woodworth Niccse LYDIA BREAK forth, break forth, O Sudbury town, I hear it on the wharves below; The good folk as they churchward go My mother, just for love of her, For Lydia's bed must have the sheet The violet flags are out once more The thorn-bush at Saint Martin's door So, Sudbury, bid your gardens blow, Of all the words that I do know, ANNE SUDBURY MEETING-HOUSE, 1653 HER eyes be like the violets, Ablow in Sudbury lane; When she doth smile, her face is sweet As blossoms after rain; With grief I think of my gray hairs, And wish me young again. In comes she through the dark old door And she doth bring the tender wind Our parson stands up straight and tall, Most stiff and still the good folk sit A flickering light, the sun creeps in, I look across to that old pew, Oh, violets in Sudbury lane, Amid the grasses green, This maid who stirs ye with her feet THOMAS À KEMPIS BROTHER of mine, good monk with cowled head, Walled from that world which thou has long since fled, And pacing thy green close beyond the sea, I send my heart to thee. Down gust-sweet walks, bordered by lavender, While eastward, westward, the mad swal lows whir, All afternoon poring thy missal fair, Mixed with the words and fitting like a tune, Thou hearest distantly the voice of June,The little, gossipping noises in the grass, The bees that come and pass. |