were blue;
But Love--I fear I knew it not.
We did not wed, for lack of gold,
And she is dead, and I am old.
All things have come since then to me,
Save Love, ah, Love! and Arcady.

_Ah, then I fear we part_ (quoth he),
_My way's for Love and Arcady_.

But you, you fare alone, like me;
The gray is likewise in your hair.
What love have you to lead you there,
To Arcady, to Arcady?

_Ah, no, not lonely do I fare;_
_My true companion's Memory._
_With Love he fills the Spring-time air;_
_With Love he clothes the Winter tree._
_Oh, past this poor horizon's bound_
_My song goes straight to one who stands--_
_Her face all gladdening at the sound--_
_To lead me to the Spring-green lands,_
_To wander with enlacing hands._
_The songs within my breast that stir_
_Are all of her, are all of her._
_My maid is dead long years_ (quoth he),
_She waits for me in Arcady._

_Oh, yon's the way to Arcady,_
_To Arcady, to Arcady;_
_Oh, yon's the way to Arcady,_
_Where all the leaves are merry._

H.C. BUNNER.

[12] From "The Poems of H.C. Bunner," copyright, 1884, 1892, 1896, by
Charles Scribner's Sons.

Eve's Daughter.

I waited in the little sunny room:
The cool breeze waved the window-lace, at play,
The white rose on the porch was all in bloom,
And out upon the bay
I watched the wheeling sea-birds go and come.

"Such an old friend,--she would not make me stay
While she bound up her hair." I turned, and lo,
Danae in her shower! and fit to slay
All a man's hoarded prudence at a blow:
Gold hair, that streamed away
As round some nymph a sunlit fountain's flow.
"She would not make me wait!"--but well I know
She took a good half-hour to loose and lay
Those locks in dazzling disarrangement so!

E.R. SILL.

On An Intaglio Head Of Minerva.

Beneath the warrior's helm, behold
The flowing tresses of the woman!
Minerva, Pallas, what you will--
A winsome creature, Greek or Roman.

Minerva? No! 'tis some sly minx
In cousin's helmet masquerading;
If not--then Wisdom was a dame
For sonnets and for serenading!

I thought the goddess cold, austere,
Not made for love's despairs and blisses:
Did Pallas wear her hair like that?
Was Wisdom's mouth so shaped for kisses?

The Nightingale should be her bird,
And not the Owl, big-eyed and solemn: