ight
Of birds and children; prayed her blossoms might
Not so allure them to her paths and bowers.
And I turned silently upon my way,
And sought His untrod forests and the hills,
My free companions of no guile nor art--
Their holy strength is more than rocks and clay;
I sought the comfort loneliness instills:
Dear Christ! She spoke her own vain, selfish heart.

_Literary Monthly_, 1910.

NOCTURNE

WILLARD ANSLEY GIBSON '08

Over the hills
Softly the slumber light
Seems to me creeping,
Stealing with twilight,
While the world sleeping
Breathes in the lower light
Prayers for its loved ones
Over the hills.

Stars watch, and the fire glows,
Fading it goes, fainter it glows,
Lips of vain speaking silently close--
The breath comes, but the breath goes.

Some mothers stifled lie,
Sobbing till life is gone;
Some fathers bitter die
In their remorse ere dawn;

Stars watch, and the fire glows--
Something comes, something goes.

Far in the night
Beckon the locust trees,
Whispering, calling,
And from their drooping leaves
White blossoms falling
Float on a magic breeze,
Far in a phantom world,
Far in the night.

Clocks chime and the night goes,
Slowly it goes, brighter it grows,
Tired hands folded rest in repose--
The breath comes, but the breath goes.

Some watchers on the hill
Wide-eyed await the dawn;
Some workers in the mill
Wearying are toiling on;

Clocks chime, and the night goes--
Slowly it lighter grows.

_Literary Monthly_, 1910.

THE HIDDEN FACE

BERNARD WESTERMANN '08

The moon hath a hidden face and fair,--
Never we gaze on its features calm;
She gazeth afar on the star-lit air,
On star-lighted regions whose breath is balm;
But never, ah never, her glance doth show
To the world of men in the deeps below.

O love, do you know that there dwells in thee
A hiddenest spirit that dreams alway,
And never the world can her features see,
Of the spirit that shunneth the earthly day?
Only I know that she lives, to rise
Some day, some night, in your love-lit eyes.

_Literary Monthly_, 1906.

MODERN THOUGHT AND MEDIEVAL DOGMA

SONNET

BERNARD WESTERMANN '08

Are we but truants from a parent stern--
Whose strait commands with fear we long obeyed,
Till, gladdened by the sunlight, far we