y--
Why that way souls go mad!

To-day I heard a woman say the earth,
All blossom garlanded, was fair to see.
I laughed with such intensity of mirth,
The woman shrank from me.

Fair? Why, I see the blackness of the tomb
Where'er I turn, and grave mould on each brow;
And grinning faces peer out of the gloom--
Good God! I _am_ mad now.

WHICH

We are both of us sad at heart,
But I wonder who can say
Which has the harder part,
Or the bitterer grief to-day.

You grieve for a love that was lost
Before it had reached its prime;
I sit here and count the cost
Of a love that has lived its time.

Your blossom was plucked in its May,
In its dawning beauty and pride;
Mine lived till the August day,
And reached fruition and died.

You pressed its leaves in a book,
And you weep sweet tears o'er them.
Dry eyed I sit and look
On a withered and broken stem.

And now that all is told,
Which is the sadder, pray,
To give up your dream with its gold,
Or to see it fade into grey?

LOVE'S BURIAL

See him quake and see him tremble,
See him gasp for breath.
Nay, dear, he does not dissemble,
This is really Death.
He is weak, and worn, and wasted,
Bear him to his bier.
All there is of life he's tasted--
He has lived a year.

He has passed his day of glory,
All his blood is cold,
He is wrinkled, thin, and hoary,
He is very old.
Just a leaf's life in the wild wood,
Is a love's life, dear.
He has reached his second childhood
When he's lived a year.

Long ago he lost his reason,
Lost his trust and faith--
Better far in his first season
Had he met with death.
Let us have no pomp or splendour,
No vain pretence here.
As we bury, grave, yet tender,
Love that's lived a year.

All his strength and all his passion,
All his pride and truth,
These were wasted, spendthrift fashion,
In his fiery youth.
Since for him life holds no beauty
Let us shed no tear,
As we do the last sad duty--
Love has lived a year.

INCOMPLETE

The summer is just in its grandest prime,
The earth is green and the skies are blue;
But where is the lilt of the olden time,
When life was a melody set to rhyme,
And dreams were so real they all seemed true?

There is sun on the meadow, and blooms on the bushes,
And never a bird but is mad with glee;
But the pulse that bounds, and the blood that rushes,
And the hope that s