With tassels and embroideries,
And many blue-eyed violets beam
Along the edges of the stream,
I hear a voice that seems to say,
Now near at hand, now far away,
"_Witchery--witchery--witchery_."

An incantation so serene,
So innocent, befits the scene:
There's magic in that small bird's note--
See, there he flits--the yellow-throat:
A living sunbeam, tipped with wings,
A spark of light that shines and sings
"_Witchery--witchery--witchery_."

You prophet with a pleasant name,
If out of Mary-land you came,
You know the way that thither goes
Where Mary's lovely garden grows:
Fly swiftly back to her, I pray,
And try, to call her down this way,
"_Witchery--witchery--witchery_!"

Tell her to leave her cockleshells,
And all her little silver bells
That blossom into melody,
And all her maids less fair than she.
She does not need these pretty things,
For everywhere she comes, she brings
"_Witchery--witchery--witchery_!"

The woods are greening overhead,
And flowers adorn each mossy bed;
The waters babble as they run--
One thing is lacking, only one:
If Mary were but here to-day,
I would believe your charming lay,
"_Witchery--witchery--witchery_!"

Along the shady road I look--
Who's coming now across the brook?
A woodland maid, all robed in white--
The leaves dance round her with delight,
The stream laughs out beneath her feet--
Sing, merry bird, the charm's complete,
"_Witchery--witchery--witchery_!"

H. VAN DYKE.

[15] From "The Builders and Other Poems," copyright, 1897, by Charles
Scribner's Sons.

The Silence of Love.

Oh, inexpressible as sweet,
Love takes my voice away;
I cannot tell thee, when we meet,
What most I long to say.

But hadst thou hearing in thy heart
To know what beats in mine,
Then shouldst thou walk, where'er thou art,
In melodies divine.

So warbling birds lift higher notes
Than to our ears belong;
The music fills their throbbing throats,
But silence steals the song.

G.E. WOODBERRY.

The Secret.

Nightingales warble about it,
All night under blossom and star;
The wild swan is dying without it,
And the eagle cryeth afar;
The sun he doth mount but to find it,
Searching the green earth o'er;
But more doth a man's heart mind it,
Oh, more, more, more!

Over the gray leagues of ocean