eauty that his brushes bring
To murmuring marbles and to golden Junes.

The music of those marbles you can hear
In every crevice, where the deep green stains
Have sunken when the grey days of the year
Spilled leisurely their warm, incessant rains

That, lingering, forget to leave the ledge,
But drenched into the seams, amid the hush
Of ages, leaving but the silent pledge
To waken to the wonder of his brush.

And at the Master's touch the marbles leap
To life, the creamy onyx and the skins
Of copper-coloured leopards, and the deep,
Cool basins where the whispering water wins

Reflections from the gold and glowing sun,
And tints from warm, sweet human flesh, for fair
And subtly lithe and beautiful, leans one--
A goddess with a wealth of tawny hair.

GOOD-BYE

Sounds of the seas grow fainter,
Sounds of the sands have sped;
The sweep of gales,
The far white sails,
Are silent, spent and dead.

Sounds of the days of summer
Murmur and die away,
And distance hides
The long, low tides,
As night shuts out the day.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

(These miscellaneous poems are all of later date.)

IN GREY DAYS

Measures of oil for others,
Oil and red wine,
Lips laugh and drink, but never
Are the lips mine.

Worlds at the feet of others,
Power gods have known,
Hearts for the favoured round me
Mine beats, alone.

Fame offering to others
Chaplets of bays,
I with no crown of laurels,
Only grey days.

Sweet human love for others,
Deep as the sea,
God-sent unto my neighbour--
But not to me.

Sometime I'll wrest from others
More than all this,
I shall demand from Heaven
Far sweeter bliss.

What profit then to others,
Laughter and wine?
I'll have what most they covet--
Death, will be mine.

BRANDON

(ACROSTIC)

Born on the breast of the prairie, she smiles to her sire--the sun,
Robed in the wealth of her wheat-lands, gift of her mothering soil,
Affluence knocks at her gateways, opulence waits to be won.
Nuggets of gold are her acres, yielding and yellow with spoil,
Dream of the hungry millions, dawn of the food-filled age,
Over the starving tale of want her fingers have turned the page;
Nations will nurse at her storehouse, and God gives her grain for wage.

THE INDIAN CORN PLANTER

He needs must leave the trapping and the chase,
For mating game his arrows ne'er despoil,
And from the hunter's heaven turn his face,