ews o'er brimming,
With language of darted light;
Of the sea-glory of opening lids of Aurora,
Ushering eyes of the dawn;
Of the callow bird in the matin darkness calling,
Chorus of drowsy charm;
Of the wind, south-west, with whispering leaves illumined,
Solemn gold of the woods;
Of the intimate breeze of noon, deep-charged with a message,
How near, at times, unto speech!
Of the sea, that soul of a poet a-yearn for expression,
For ever yearning in vain!
Hoarse o'er the shingle with loud, unuttered meanings,
Hurling on caverns his heart.
Of the summer night, what to communicate, eager?
Perchance the secret of peace.
The lure of the silver to gold, of the pale unto colour,
Of the seen to the real unseen;
Of voices away to the voiceless, of sound unto silence,
Of words to a wordless calm;
Of music doomed unto wandering, still returning,
Ever to heaven and home.
The lure of the beautiful woman through flesh unto spirit,
Through a smile unto endless light;
Of the flight of a bird thro' evening over the marsh-land,
Lingering in Heaven alone;
Of the vessel disappearing over the sea-marge,
With him or with her that we love;
Of the sudden touch in the hand of a friend or a maiden,
Thrilling up to the stars.
The appealing death of a soldier, the moon just rising,
Kindling the battle-field;
Of the cup of water, refused by the thirsting Sidney,
Parched with the final pang:
Of the crucified Christ, yet lo, those arms extended,
Wide, as a world to embrace;
And last, and grandest, the lure, the invitation,
And sacred wooing of death;
Unto what regions, or heavens, or solemn spaces,
Who, but by dying, can tell?

BEAUTIFUL LIE THE DEAD

Beautiful lie the dead;
Clear comes each feature;
Satisfied not to be,
Strangely contented.

Like ships, the anchor dropped,
Furled every sail is
Mirrored with all their masts
In a deep water.

A LYRIC FROM "THE SIN OF DAVID"

I

Red skies above a level land
And thoughts of thee;
Sinking Sun on reedy strand,
And alder tree.

II

Only the heron sailing home
With heavy flight!
Ocean afar in silent foam,
And coming night!

III

Dwindling day and drowsing birds,
O my child!
Dimness and returning herds,
Memory wild.

EDEN PHILLPOTTS

A DEVON COURTING

Birds gived over singin'
Flitter-mice was wingin'
Mist lay on the meadows--
A purty sight to see.
Downling in the dimpsy, the dimpsy, the di