thquake scars with lava veins
That bubble.

The wind that blows from out the hills
Is like a woman's touch that stills
A sorrow:
The moon sits high with many a star
In the deep calm: and fair and far
Abides to-morrow.

REQUIEM

I.

No more for him, where hills look down,
Shall Morning crown
Her rainy brow with blossom bands!--
Whose rosy hands
Drop wild flowers of the breaking skies
Upon the sod 'neath which he lies.--
No more! no more!

II.

No more for him where waters sleep,
Shall Evening heap
The long gold of the perfect days!
Whose pale hand lays
Great poppies of the afterglow
Upon the turf he rests below.--
No more! no more!

III.

No more for him, where woodlands loom,
Shall Midnight bloom
The star-flow'red acres of the blue!
Whose brown hands strew
Dead leaves of darkness, hushed and deep,
Upon the grave where he doth sleep.--
No more! no more!

IV.

The hills that Morning's footsteps wake;
The waves that take
A brightness from the Eve; the woods
O'er which Night broods,
Their spirits have, whose parts are one
With his whose mortal part is done.
Whose part is done!

AT LAST

What shall be said to him,
Now he is dead?
Now that his eyes are dim,
Low lies his head?
What shall be said to him,
Now he is dead?

One word to whisper of
Low in his ear;
Sweet, but the one word "love"
Haply he'll hear.
One word to whisper of
Low in his ear.

What shall be given him,
Now he is dead?
Now that his eyes are dim,
Low lies his head?
What shall be given him,
Now he is dead?

Hope, that life long denied
Here to his heart,
Sweet, lay it now beside,
Never to part.
Hope, that life long denied
Here to his heart.

A DARK DAY

Though Summer walks the world to-day
With corn-crowned hours for her guard,
Her thoughts have clad themselves in gray,
And wait in Autumn's weedy yard.

And where the larkspur and the phlox
Spread carpets wheresoe'er she pass,
She seems to stand with sombre locks
Bound bleak with fog-washed zinnias.--

Fall's terra-cotta-colored flowers,
Whose disks the trickling wet has tinged
With dingy lustre when the bower's
Thin, flame-flecked leaves the frost has singed;

Or with slow feet, 'mid gaunt gold blooms
Of marigolds her fingers twist,
She seems to pass with Fall's perfumes,
And dreams of