Hast seen the morn, the first light in his eyes,
Look loveliness along the sullen skies?
Hast marked spent day, slow journeying, backward turn,
Though, one by one, the stars begin to burn?
Hast seen the dream-shapes, pale with winter yet,
Warming wood-spaces for the violet?
Hast heard the spring-song on the wild March air,
And all the world 's a lover listening there?
Hast heard the lay the bush-bird long did keep,
Only, at last, to sing it in his sleep?
Hast heard the brook, where all the boughs are old,
Run under them, lulling the leafy fold?

From the withered, bitter ground
Every sweet has taken leave?
Joy, there's none of sight or sound,
Naught to do but sit and grieve?
Look — the blue! bent close above,
Close above;
While it hovers we may love

Pray on, pray on; Pray on dem light us over;
Pray on, Pray on, De union break of day.
My sister, you come to see baptize,
In de union break of day;
My 'loved sister, you come to see baptize,
In de union break of day.

A ROMANCE OF TRAVEL.

Bertha — Writing from Venice .

I .

On your heart I feign myself fallen — ah, heavier burden,
Darling, of sorrow and pain than ever shall rest there! I take you
Into these friendless arms of mine, that you cannot escape me;
Closer and closer I fold you, and tell you all, and you listen
Just as you used at home, and you let my sobs and my silence
Speak, when the words will not come — and you understand and forgive me.

A woman launts her lover:

Look at the little darlings in the corn!
The rye is taller than you, who think yourself
So high and mighty: look how its heads are borne
Dark and proud on the sky, like a number of knights
Passing with spears and pennants and manly scorn.

And always likely! Oh, if I could ride
With my head held high-serene against the sky,
Do you think I'd have a creature like you at my side
With your gloom and your doubt that you love me?
O darling rye,
How I adore you for your simple pride!

My grief and my paint a mortal disease is love,
Woe, woe unto him who must prove it a month or even a day,
It hath broken my heart, and my bosom is burdened with sighs,
From dreaming of her gentle sleep hath forsaken mine eyes.

I met with the fairy host at the liss beside Ballyfinnane;
I asked them had they a herb for the curing of love's cruel pain.
They answered me softly and mildly, with many a pitying tone,
" When this torment comes into the heart it never goes out again. "

It seems to me long till the tide washes up on the strand;

WITH THANKS TO G. K. CHESTERTON

Their hearts are bowed with sorrow,
They love to wail and croon;
They shed big tears when they sigh, " Machree, "
Floods when they sob, " Aroon! "

For the Young Gaels of Ireland
Are the lads that drive me mad;
For half their words need foot-notes,
And half their rhymes are bad.

TUCSON

Aloof as aged kings,
Wearing like them the purple,
The mountains ring the mesa
Crowned with a dusky light;
Many a time I watched
That coming-on of darkness
Till stars burned through the heavens
Intolerably bright.

It was not long I lived there
But I became a woman
Under those vehement stars,
For it was there I heard
For the first time my spirit
Forging an iron rule for me,
As though with slow cold hammers
Beating out word by word:

Stand firm, gray Rock!
Tough-weathered Beams, hold fast!
Stanch Walls, proud Roof,
Repel the warring Blast!
Glow warm, deep Hearth,
Against the Winter's Chill;
Clear Flame of Love,
Burn brighter, warmer still!

Commute with me, Love, and be merry;
How vain in the City to dwell
When apple-trees blow in Dobbs' Ferry
And lilacs adorn New Rochelle!
White Plains is the Garden of Allah
And Pelham's the Pearl of the Sea;
There's bliss in the name of Valhalla —
Oh, fly to the Suburbs with me!

Then won't you commute on my family ticket?
To Westchester County we'll flee.
Delightful Westchester,