But half a man's days—and his days were nights
What hearts were ours who loved him, should we pray
That night would yield him back to darkling day,
Sweet death that soothes, to life that spoils and smites?
For now, perchance, life lovelier than the light's
That shed no comfort on his weary way
Shows him what none may dream to see or say
Ere yet the soul may scale those topless heights
Where death lies dead, and triumph. Haply there
Already may his kindling eyesight find
Faces of friends—no face than his more fair—

The days of a man are threescore years and ten.
The days of his life were half a man's, whom we
Lament, and would yet not bid him back, to be
Partaker of all the woes and ways of men.
Life sent him enough of sorrow: not again
Would anguish of love, beholding him set free,
Bring back the beloved to suffer life and see
No light but the fire of grief that scathed him then.

We know not at all: we hope, and do not fear.
We shall not again behold him, late so near,
Who now from afar above, with eyes alight
And spirit enkindled, haply toward us here

D UMBARTON'S drums beat bonnie-o,
For they mind me of my dear Johnnie-o,
How happy am I,
When my soldier is by,
When he kisses and blesses his Annie-o.

'Tis a soldier alone can delight me-o,
For his graceful looks do invite me-o:
While guarded in his arms,
I'll fear no war's alarms,
Neither danger nor death shall e'er fright me-o.

My love is a handsome laddie-o,
Genteel, but never foppish or gaudie-o;
Though commissions are dear,
Yet I'll buy him one this year;
For he shall serve no longer a cadie-o.

No more! while sun and planets fly,
And wind and storm and seasons four,
And while we live and while we die,—
No more.

Nevertheless old ocean's roar,
And wide earth's multitudinous cry,
And echo's pent reverberant store

Shall hush to silence by and bye:
Ah, rosy world gone cold and hoar!
Man opes no more a mortal eye,

Woe is me! an old man said
Stretched upon his dying bed:
Woe is me! for life is short;
And one hour cannot be bought
With great treasure or long thought.
What have all my days been worth?
Weary labour without gain,
Pleasure ending in much pain,
Planting that brought forth no fruit,
Tree of life struck at the root,
Were my portion from my birth:
But my cold heart sickeneth
Shrinking from the touch of death;
And I fain would have again
Toil and weariness and pain
For a short time more on earth.
Yet the time was troublesome,

I HAVE an uncle I don't like,
—An aunt I cannot bear:
She chucks me underneath the chin,
—He ruffles up my hair.

Another uncle I adore,
—Another aunty, too:
She shakes me kindly by the hand,
—He says, How do you do?

Floating, floating on misty waves
in a little boat;
trees shed leaves in western wind,
autumn on Five Lakes.
Friends with gulls and egrets,
contemptuous of kings,
who cares if all the fish below
never bite my hook?

. . .I shall paint
God in the midst, Madonna and her babe,
Ringed by a bowery flowery angel-brood,
Lilies and vestments and white-faces, sweet
As puff on puff of grated orris-root
When ladies crowd to church at midsummer.
And then i'the front, of course, a saint or two--
Saint John, because he saves the Florentines,
Saint Ambrose, who puts down in black and white
The convent's friends and gives them a long day,
And Job, I must have him there past mistake,
The man of Uz (and Us without the z,
Painters who need his patience). Well, all these

Among the millions
Of my people, far and near,
To share a pleasure
Is, o'er every other joy,
One beyond all magnitude.

NO QUAINT conceit of speech,
No golden, minted phrase—
Dame Nature needs to teach
To echo Woman's praise;
Pure love and truth unite
To do thee, Woman, right!

She is the faithful mirror
Of thoughts that brightest be—
Of feelings without error,
Of matchless constancie;
When art essays to render
More glorious Heaven's bow—
To paint the virgin splendour
Of fresh-fallen mountain snow—
New fancies will I find,
To laud true Woman's mind.

No words can lovelier make
Virtue's all-lovely name,
No change can ever shake