nd
Savoir c'est Pardonner
Morning
A Blind Singer
Mary
When Love went
Overshadowed
Time to Go
Gulf-Stream
My White Chrysanthemum
Till the Day Dawn
My Birthday
By the Cradle
A Thunder Storm
Through the Door
Readjustment
At the Gate
A Home
The Legend of Kintu
Easter
Bind-Weed
April
May
Secrets
How the Leaves Came Down
Barcaroles
My Rights
Solstice
In the Mist
Within
Menace
"He That Believeth Shall Not Make Haste"
My Little Ghost
Christmas
Benedicam Domino

PRELUDE.

Poems are heavenly things,
And only souls with wings
May reach them where they grow,
May pluck and bear below,
Feeding the nations thus
With food all glorious.

Verses are not of these;
They bloom on earthly trees,
Poised on a low-hung stem,
And those may gather them
Who cannot fly to where
The heavenly gardens are.

So I by devious ways
Have pulled some easy sprays
From the down-dropping bough
Which all may reach, and now
I knot them, bud and leaf,
Into a rhymed sheaf.

Not mine the pinion strong
To win the nobler song;
I only cull and bring
A hedge-row offering
Of berry, flower, and brake,
If haply some may take.

VERSES.

COMMISSIONED.

"Do their errands; enter into the sacrifice with them; be a link
yourself in the divine chain, and feel the joy and life of
it."--ADELINE D. T. WHITNEY

What can I do for thee, Beloved,
Whose feet so little while ago
Trod the same way-side dust with mine,
And now up paths I do not know
Speed, without sound or sign?

What can I do? The perfect life
All fresh and fair and beautiful
Has opened its wide arms to thee;
Thy cup is over-brimmed and full;
Nothing remains for me.

I used to do so many things,--
Love thee and chide thee and caress;
Brush little straws from off thy way,
Tempering with my poor tenderness
The heat of thy short day.

Not much, but very sweet to give;
And it is grief of griefs to bear
That all these ministries are o'er,
And thou, so happy, Love, elsewhere,
Never can need me more:--

And I can do for thee but this
(Working on blindly, knowing not
If I may give thee pleasure so):
Out of my own dull, burdened lot
I can arise, and go

To sadder lives and darker homes,
A messenger, dear heart, from thee
Who wast on