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Then she-whom both his faith and fear enchanted
Far beyond words to tell,
The art he had that knew to blunder so we'l
Shyly drew near, a little step, and mocking,
“Shall we not be too late For tea?” she said. “I'm quite worn out with
walking: Yes, thanks, your arm. And will you-open
Over against my own;
Of candles, burning alone, -
Tiptoe, holding their breath,
Lest they should waken Death,
Watches with flamy eye
Let her go stealing by.
Breaks with a sudden song,
The hound the whole night long
II. For ignorant hopes that were Broken to our blind prayer: For pain, death, sorrow, sent Unto our chas ement: For all loss of seeming good, Quicken our gratitude.
ONCE on my mother's breast, a child, I crept,
Holding my breath; There, safe and sad, lay shuddering, and wept
At the dark mystery of Death.
Weary and weak, and worn with all unrest,
Spent with the strife, -
At tie sad mystery of Life!
He falters on the threshold,
She lingers on the stair: Can it be that was his footstep?
Can it be that she is there?
Without is tender yearning,
And tender love is within; They can hear each other's heart-beats,
But a wooden door is between.
Weakly good-natured and kind, and weakly good
natured and vicious, Slender of body and soul, fit neither for loving nor hating.
- The Pilot's Story.
Blowing our bloom away, —
Out of the lips of May.
Ah, me! for the thought of pain! -
The little drowsy stream
And not with Fate. And who can guess
How weary of our happiness
- Sweet Clover.
MARCH. Tossing his mane of snows in wildest eddies and
tangles, Lion-like, March cometh in, hoarse, with tem
pestuous breath, Through all the moaning chimneys, and thwart
all the hollows and angles Round the shuddering house, threatening of winter and death.
-In Earliest Spring.
And hope a May, and do not know:
May be, the heaven is full of snow,-
Their singing so loud and gay;
-While She Sang.
ART. Art is not ours, O friend! but if we are not hers, we are nothing.
THE POET'S FRIENDS. The robin sings in the elm;
The cattle stand beneath, Sedate and grave, with great brown eyes
And fragrant meadow-breath.
They listen to the flattered bird,
The wise-looking, stupid things; And they never understand a word
Of all the robin sings.
Without, and going from the room, and never
Departing, did depart
Felt them go heavy o'er his broken heart.
He could not bear the gloom, The vanishing encounter and evasion Of things that were and were not in the room.
IONE L. JONES.
They are sweetly sleeping,
family of six girls. Her mother, dreaming over her first child, used to wish there might be a writer in the family, and, as if in response to the unspoken desire, Ione began scribbling verses at an early age. She is a person of warm sympathies, ready tact, possessing much of that charity which in the Book of books is writ “ Love." In 1872 her parents removed to Catskill village, N. Y., and shortly after, Ione was married to G. Howard Jones, a young lawyer of that place, where, with their two children, aged nine and eleven, they now reside.
Mrs. Jones is one of the best of companions, possessing a keen and ready wit and a quiet sense of humor, appreciating all thạt is interesting in human life. From childhood she has indicated the possession of many gifts, and now uses pen, brush, and piano or violin (and housewifely broom,) with readiness. Her first verses were published in 1884, and though she has written chiefly in a lighter vein, some of her unpublished poems show deeper channels of thought which speak of wider scope for her future work.
E. F. B.
So now. Listen to the clatter! Pink Arbutus stirs in bed And wonders what's the matter. All the icy fleets set free, Down the streams are rushing ; Toward the everlasting sea Wildly, madly pushing. Blow, then, blow! Let them go! Winter's reign is o'er, we know.
Up hill, down dale,
A SPRING IDYL.
Fair young mother, with children three, What may the names of your jewels be? Whisper, I pray, the secret to me.
And furnish it throughout;
With lofty walls and stout; A man can build a temple,
With high and spacious dome; But no man in the world can build
That precious thing called Home.
My first-born treasure is brave and bold, Warlike and blustering. In him behold March, my soldier! in pride be it told.
It is the happy faculty
Of woman tar and wide, To turn a cot or palace
Into something else beside-
With willing footsteps come;
A perfect kingdom-Home.
Fickle and wild, running over with fun,
sweetMay. Of all blessings, my own most complete.
And the fair young mother, on time's swift wing, With her jewels so rare, passed on; and the ring Of their footfalls was all that was left me of
BOLD March! Wild March!
A NOVEMBER DAY. A DAMP gray blanket hides the mountain's blue,
The day is sad and long; The East Wind blows no hint of sunshine through,
And hushed the wild bird's song.