Lids closed and pale with parted lips she lay.
Black on white pillows spread her hair unbound.
Awake, I watched her sleeping face and found
Its beauty perfect in the breaking day.

Ah then I knew that Love had passed away,
Alas! though with the entering sun that crowned
With light the beauty that mine arms enwound
Came too the morning music of the bay.

I wept that Love had been and was no more,
That never shower nor sunlight should restore
The beauty that was dead thenceforth to me,

While radiant in the outburst of the dawn,

A VIOLIN and tired piano grind
A tinkling valse whereto in couples turn
Some girls whose cheeks in rouge and powder burn,
Some men whose like one is not glad to find.

Inside, the fumes of gas and stifled heat,
Tired men and hopeless women and the tune
That wearies us: outside, the waning moon,
The rain-washed freshness of the silent street.

The chirp of early sparrows, and the play
Of brightening shadows on dim roof and wall,
Could one but see beyond the curtains' pall
And the drawn blinds that hide from us the day.

The little Dreams of maidenhood—
—I put them all away
As tenderly as mother would
—The toys of yesterday,
When little children grow to men
—Too over-wise for play.

The little dreams I put aside—
—I loved them every one,
And yet since moon-blown buds must hide
—Before the noon-day sun,
I close them wistfully away
—And give the key to none.

O little Dreams of Maidenhood—
—Lie quietly, nor care
If some day in an idle mood
—I, searching unaware
Through some closed corner of my heart,
—Should laugh to find you there.

M ELCHIOR , Gaspar, Balthazar,
Great gifts they bore and meet;
White linen for His body fair
And purple for His feet;
And golden things—the joy of kings—
And myrrh to breathe Him sweet.

It was the shepherd Terish spake,
“Oh, poor the gift I bring—
A little cross of broken twigs,
A hind's gift to a king—
Yet, haply, He may smile to see
And know my offering.”

And it was Mary held her son
Full softly to her breast,
“Great gifts and sweet are at Thy feet
And wonders king-possessed,
O little Son, take Thou the one

How can I wait till these long days are past
Before I rest my eyes on thy dear face!
Where art thou, love? O I would follow fast
If but some power would guide me to the place!
Canst thou not tell me by some spirit's grace?
For surely there are spirits, as of old,
Who joy love's glowing message to unfold

Speak but my name, and the kind breeze will bear
The sweet sound, like a perfume, through the space;
And I shall wander forth, knowing not where,
But surely shall I come unto the place
Where thou dost stand, and gaze into thy face

Once a raven from Pluto's dark shore
Bore the singular news—“Nevermore.”
'Twas of fruitless avail
To ask further detail—
His reply was the same as before.

Swift across the palace floor
Flashed her tiny wilful feet;
“Playfellow, I will no more,
Now I must my task complete.”

Arthur kissed her childish hand,
Sighed to think her task severe,
Walked forth in the garden land,
Lonely till she reappear.

She has sought her latticed room,
Overlooking faery seas,
Called Launcelot from a bowery gloom
To feast of milk and honey of bees.

“Had we bid Prince Arthur too,
He had shaken his grave head,
Saying, ‘My holidays are few!’—
May queens not have their will?” she said.

NO more let France her critic Dacier boast,
The Queen of Isles a M ONTAGU adorns,
Whose genius, tow'ring as her Albion's coast,
The pedant sons of abject flav'ry scorns.

Fair blooms the wreath thy gen'rous hand has wove,
With laurels green thou deck'st thy Shakespeare's head,
Immortal Genius doth the task approve,
And bids his Poet's glories round thee spread.

Thy gen'rous pen was destin'd, sure, to guard
From Gallic-ignorance his injur'd name,
With polish'd science to adorn the Bard,
Bold to admire, yet not afraid to blame.

How shall I bring this beast into subjection
But by the hope and knowledge of perfection?
Must I avoid all paths my Race has trod?
Shall I not call my vast upholder God?

'T IS said that the South-Wind loved a flower,
And wooed her, long ago.
But alas, the North-Wind loved her too,
And he was the South-Wind's foe.

Notus was gentle and soft and mild,
And the flower loved him well,
For he talked of love and he sang and sighed
In the trees around her dell.

And one bright day in the early spring,
When the air was soft, and a tide
Of music swelled from each budding tree,
The flower became his bride.

The North-Wind heard and he vowed revenge,
And when autumn came again,