Somehow I cannot let it go yet, funeral though it is,
Let it remain back there on its nail suspended,
With pink, blue, yellow, all blanch'd, and the white now gray and ashy,
One wither'd rose put years ago for thee, dear friend;
But I do not forget thee. Hast thou then faded?
Is the odor exhaled? Are the colors, vitalities, dead?
No, while memories subtly play—the past vivid as ever;
For but last night I woke, and in that spectral ring saw thee,
Thy smile, eyes, face, calm, silent, loving as ever:
So let the wreath hang still awhile within my eye-reach,

Oh, ye children of the Father,
Born of him in faith and love,
Sons of God, and heirs of glory,
Your inheritance above;
Some are high, and some are lowly,
Some are poor, and some are great;
Some are daily, some are hourly,
Going in the pearly gate
Kings and prophets, priest and people,
Jew and Gentile, bond and free,
Ev'ry tribe, and ev'ry nation,
Gather in from land and sea.
Oh, beloved of the Father,
Dry your tears, and march along;
Soon, oh, soon the happy meeting,
And the everlasting song.

Oh, ye scattered as the ocean,

Not thine but ours this day shall prove.
All others in the year that be
Thou makest thine by deeds of love:
This day is ours—to give to thee.

A WISE OLD OWL lived in an oak;
The more he saw the less he spoke;
The less he spoke the more he heard:
Why can't we all be like that bird?

To-day my quest of beauty lies
By rough-hewn ways of ancient France,
Mounting where broken castles rise
Out of lost dreams of love and lance—
The solid wreckage of Romance.
To follow dreams what foot can be
Too weary! My fatigue defies
The cobble-stones of Brittany.

What echoes pierce the silent hours!
What visions throng the darkest night:
The bowstrings' dirge from crowded towers;
The shining troopers' clattering flight
To noisy battle; women's fright
Hearing the clash they cannot see.
How loud that folly speaks to ours

Nay , thank me not again for those
Camelias, that untimely rose;
But if, whence you might please the more,
And win the few unwon before,
I sought the flowers you loved to wear,
O'erjoy'd to see them in your hair,
Upon my grave, I pray you, set
One primrose or one violet.
. . . Stay . . . I can wait a little yet.

You beat your pate, and fancy wit will come.
Knock as you please,--there's nobody at home.

I cannot tell what it presages
This weight of sorrow and care
A tale from the by-gone ages
In my mind, that will linger there.

The cool twilight o'er all is dreaming,
And the Rhine flows calmly on;
The mountain summit is gleaming
In the glow of the evening sun.

There sitteth alone a maiden
High over us, wondrous fair,
Her robe gleams jewel-laden,
And she combs her golden hair.

With a golden comb her tresses
She combs as she sings a lay,
And the melody weird possesses
A power to which none can say nay.

icefish—
their lives transparent
in the rippling water

Come let's goo down the grove to-night;
The moon is up, 'tis all so light
As day, an' win' do blow enough
To sheäke the leaves, but tiddèn rough.
Come, Esther, teäke, vor wold time's seäke,
Your hooded cloke, that's on the pin,
An' wrap up warm, an' teäke my eärm,
You'll vind it better out than in.
Come, Etty dear; come out o' door,
An' teäke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore.

How charmèn to our very souls,
Wer woonce your evenèn maïden strolls,
The while the zettèn zunlight dyed
Wi' red the beeches' western zide,
But back avore your vinger wore