SIBYL

HIS is the glamour of the world antique;

TH

The thyme-scents of Hymettus fill the air And in the grass narcissus-cups are fair. The full brook wanders through the ferns to seek The amber haunts of bees and on the peak Of the soft hill, against the gold-marged sky, She stands, a dream from out the days gone by. Entreat her not. Indeed she will not speak. Her eyes are full of dreams and in her ears There is the rustle of immortal wings; And ever and anon the slow breeze bears The mystic murmur of the song she sings. Entreat her not: she sees thee not nor hears Aught but the sights and sounds of bygone Springs.

FLITTING HOPE

AIR angel, I have sought thee many a day,

F1

Through many mingling ways of smiles and tears,
And watched thy shadow flutter through the years.
Ay, evermore, the outline cool and grey
Of thy soft pinions on the landscape lay,
Softening the mocking sunlight and the spears
Of the cold silver moon; and still, with ears
Eager and strained, I listened for the sway
Of thy wide wings across the trembling air.
Ah! never to my sight thy presence came,
Nor in the midnight nor the noonday's flame;
But on the ecstasy of my despair,

Worn down to silence, falls the shade the same,
A far faint angel with outfluttering hair.

OUTSTRETCHED HANDS

́S there no sweetness save of ripened fruit? Lies all men's gladness in fulfilled desire? Is no flame blander than fruition's fire, That with swift flowerage burns away its root? Life passes by, and still my heart is mute. Day follows night; and yet the sky no nigher Leans to my hope. Shall all my days expire And all my soul grow grey grow grey with the pursuit ? Shall life waste alway in this torrid blast Of unstayed passion? Oh! it cannot be But that some day the spirit shall have cast Its slough of lusts, that in some luminous sea Surely a man's desire shall purgèd be, Surely the early peace come back at last.

TO THE BELOVED DEAD

I

CALL upon you "in the collied night,"

When all things sleep and only I, I wake, Beseeching you to come for pity's sake

And my sad eyes to solace with your sight.

How many a time I've watched the dark grow white,

Expecting still to see the shadow take

Your shape, to hear your voice the silence break,

Your speech renew for me the dead delight!

I will not question you. I will not weep;
I will not seek to strain you to my breast:
Let me but look upon your face in sleep,
But feel your touch, but hear you voice my name,
And you shall go, returning whence you came,
And have again your cold and senseless rest.

THE LAST OF THE GODS

F all the Gods, for Love my heart is sore,

OF

For Love, that was so frank and fair a thing, That had so vague and sweet a voice to sing To our tired sense. Since to the unknown shore, With all his glamours, he is gone before, How shall the world again be glad in Spring, How shall the earth again with blossoming Be clad or have delight of Summer more? And yet, and yet, sad heart, be comforted: Love, of a truth, is not for ever dead; He sleepeth but for weariness of woe And sheer despite of this our world of show And yet will lift again his lovesome head And take again his arrows and his bow.