ROBIN'S SECRET T18 the blithest, bonniest weather for a bird to flirt a feather, For a bird to trill and warble, all his wee red breast a-swell. I've a secret. You may listen till your blue eyes dance and glisten, Little maiden, but I'll never, never, never, never tell. You'll find no more wary piper, till the strawberries wax riper In December than in June-aha! all up and down the dell, Where my nest is set, for certain, with a pink and snowy curtain, East or west, but which I'll never, never, never, never tell. १ You may prick me with a thistle, if you ever hear me whistle How my brooding mate, whose weariness my carols sweet dispel, All between the clouds and clover, appleblossoms drooping over, Twitters low that I must never, never, never, never tell. Oh, I swear no closer fellow stains his bill in cherries mellow. Tra la la! and tirra lirra! I'm the jauntiest sentinel, Perched beside my jewel-casket, where lie hidden- don't you nsk it, For of those three eggs I'll never, hever, never, never tell. Chirp! chirp! chirp ! alack! for pity! Who hath marred my merry ditty? Who hath stirred the scented petals, peeping in where robins dwell? Oh, my mate! May Heaven defend her! Little maidens' hearts are tender, And I never, never, never, never, never meant to tell. A SONG OF RICHES WHAT will you give to a barefoot lass, Morning with breath like wine? Wade, bare feet! In my wide morass Starry marigolds shine. Alms, sweet Noon, for a barefoot lass, Gift, a gift for a barefoot lass, Homeward the weary merchants pass, THE LITTLE KNIGHT IN GREEN WHAT fragrant-footed comer Make sharp your spears, my gallant peers, Before the White Host harm her, We'll hurry to her aid; And every tiny blade The life-blood of the frost, Till from their king the order ring: "Fall back! the day is lost." Now shame to knighthood, brothers ! My crown of sunshine gain? Last hope my heart gives over. But hark! a shout of cheer! My brothers leave their slumbers The day's our own; but, overthrown, I kiss her feet and deem it sweet George Pellew ON A CAST FROM AN ANTIQUE | Dim stairs climb past her where one's HEADLESS, without an arm, a figure leans By something vaguely Greek,-a fount, an urn; thoughts discern A temple or a palace. Some great queen's Daughter art thou? or humbly one of thoso Frank Dempster Sherman ON A GREEK VASE DIVINELY shapen cup, thy lip Unto me seemeth thus to speak: "Behold in me the workmanship, The grace and cunning of a Greek! "Long ages since he mixed the clay, Whose sense of symmetry was such, The labor of a single day Immortal grew beneath his touch. "For dreaming while his fingers went And hearing from thy lips this tale Of love and skill, of art and grace, Thou seem'st to me no more the frail Memento of an older race: They do not miss their meadow place, There, in the downy meshes pinned, Such sweet illusions haunt their rest; They think her breath the fragrant wind, And tremble on her breast; As if, close to her heart, they heard THE LIBRARY GIVE me the room whose every nook Two windows will suffice for air From Plato down to those who are |