vibrant joy; I hummed with ecstasy._

THE GOLD FIELDS.

Here is a tale the North Wind sang to me:
Hell hath set Mammon o'er a frozen land,
Crowned him with gold, put gold into his hand,
And men forsake their God to bow the knee
Again unto this world-old deity
Whose rule is wheresoe'er man's feet go forth,
Whether they track the grim and icy North,
Or Afric's scorching sweeps of sandy sea.
About his throne they crawl and curse and weep;
The tenfold pangs of darkness and of cold
Bite at their hearts, and hound them as they creep,
Thief-like, to catch his scattered crumbs of gold;--
And over all still burns God's warning scroll:
"What profit it if ye shall lose your soul?"

THE WOMAN ANSWERS.

What will I say when face to face with God
My naked soul shall come, seared with the stain
That men call sin? Why, God will understand;
He knew my pitiful story long before
My frail dust quickened with the breath of life;
He knew the mystery of that day of days
When, thrilled with virgin wonder, I should come
Bearing the lily of my stainless love
To plant upon the desert of desire.
I do not fear His judgment; He knows all.

I do not fear His judgment lest it be
That I shall look no more upon his face
Who taught my heart to love; and, surely, One
Who wrought a perfect note from these poor strings
Will not condemn to discord when the strain
Has reached the fullness of its harmony.

I do not fear His judgment, but I weep
For him who slew the lily with a kiss
Too full of passion's rapture; if I speak
In that transcendent moment when I stand
A sinful woman at the bar of God
To hear my sentence, I shall answer still:
"I loved him; that was all that I could do;
I love him; that is all that I can say!"

THE MONASTERY.

Beyond the wall the passion flower is blooming,
Strange hints of life along the winds are blown;
Within, the cowled and silent men are kneeling
Before an image on a cross of stone,
And on their lifted faces, wan as death,
I read this simple message of their faith:
"The trail of flame is ashen,
And pleasure's lees are gray,
And gray the fruit of passion
Whose ripeness is decay;
The stress of life is rancor,
A madness born to sl