w,
'Neath the glint and the glory of stars.
'Tis midnight and moonlight, and slumber
Has hushed every heart but my own;
O why are these thoughts without number
Sent to me by the man in the moon?

Thoughts of the Here and Hereafter,--
Thoughts all unbidden to come,--
Thoughts that are echoes of laughter--
Thoughts that are ghosts from the tomb,--
Thoughts that are sweet as wild honey,--
Thoughts that are bitter as gall,--
Thoughts to be coined into money,--
Thoughts of no value at all.

Dreams that are tangled like wild-wood,
A hint creeping in like a hare;
Visions of innocent childhood,--
Glimpses of pleasure and care;
Brave thoughts that flash like a saber,--
Cowards that crouch as they come,--
Thoughts of sweet love and sweet labor
In the fields at the old cottage-home.

Visions of maize and of meadow,
Songs of the birds and the brooks,
Glimpses of sunshine and shadow,
Of hills and the vine-covered nooks;
Dreams that were dreams of a lover,--
A face like the blushing of morn,--
Hum of bees and the sweet scent of clover
And a bare-headed girl in the corn.

Hopes that went down in the battle,
Apples that crumbled to dust,--
Manna for rogues, and the rattle
Of hail-storms that fall on the just.
The "shoddy" that lolls in her chariot,--
Maud Muller at work in the grass:
Here a silver-bribed Judas Iscariot,--
There--Leonidas dead in the pass.

Commingled the good and the evil;
Sown together the wheat and the tares;
In the heart of the wheat is the weevil;
There is joy in the midst of our cares.
The past,--shall we stop to regret it?
What is,--shall we falter and fall?
If the envious wrong thee, forget it;
Let thy charity cover them all.

The cock hails the morn, and the rumble
Of wheels is abroad in the streets,
Still I tumble and mumble and grumble
At the fleas in my ears and--the sheets;
Mumble and grumble and tumble
Till the buzz of the bees is no more;
In a jumble I mumble and drumble
And tumble off--into a snore.

DANIEL

[Written at the grave of an old friend.]

Down into the darkness at last, Daniel,--down into the darkness at last;
Laid in the lap of our Mother, Daniel,--sleeping the dreamless sleep,--
Sleeping the sleep of the babe unborn--the pure and the perfect rest:
Aye, and is it not better than this fitful fever and pain?
Aye, and is it not better, if only the dead soul knew?

Joy was there in the spring-time and ho