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And in the fierce strife Which winter brings to me amain,

Sapless. I waste my life, And, murmuring at my fate, complain.

I am a worthless reed;
No golden top have I for crown,

No flower for beauty's meed,
No wreath for poet's high renown.

Hollow and gaunt, my wand
Shrill whistles, bending in the gale;

Leafless and sad I stand,
And still neglected, still bewail.

O foolish reed! to wail!
A poet came, with downcast eyes,

And, wandering through the dale, Saw thee and claimed thee for his prize.

He plucked thee from the mire; He pruned and made of thee a pen,

And wrote in words of fire
His flaming song to listening men;

Till thou, so lowly bred,
Now wedded to a nobler state,

Utt'rest such paeans overhead That angels listen at their gate.

Louisa Parsons Hopkins.


Passionate, stormy ocean,

Spreading thine arms to me, The depths of my soul's emotion

Surge with the surging sea: Waves and billows go o'er me,

Give me thy strong right hand! The throes of my heart's vain struggle

I know thou wilt understand.

Break with thy hidden anguish,

restless and yearning main! y my sighs; I languish,

Moaning in secret pain.
The heart I had trusted fails me,

The hopes I would rest in, flee;
Woe upon woe assails me,

Comfort me, answering sea!

Mightily tossed with tempest,

Lashed into serried crest, roaring and seething billows

Give thee nor peace nor rest: Oh, to thy heaving bosom

Take me, wild sobbing sea! For the whole earth's groaning and travail

Utters itself in thee.


Blow, northern winds! To brace my fibres, knit re cords. To gird my soul, to fire my words, To do my work,—for 't is the Lord's, —

To fashion minds.

Come, tonic blasts! Arouse my courage, stir my thought. Give nerve and spring, that as I ought I give my strength to what is wrought.

While duty lasts.

Glow, arctic light, And let my heart with burnished steel.

That bright magnetic flame reveal which kindles purpose, faith, and zeal

For truth and right.

Shine, winter skies! That when each brave day's work is done,

I wait in peace, from sun to sun.
To meet unshamed, through victory
Your starry eyes.

[From Prrsrphnne.]

The chrysalid with rapture stirs;
The water-beetle feels more nigh
His glory of the dragon-fly,

And nectar fills the flower-spurs.

Down in the confidential green
Of clover-fields the insects hum,
While myriad creatures pipe and

And live their busy life unseen.

The flowers of the Indian corn Droop their fair feathers o'er the sheath,

And all their pollen grains bequeath That golden harvests may be born.

tom Persephane.]

The summer-tide swells high and full;

I sit within the waving grass; The scented breezes o'er me pass, The thistles shed their silky wool.

The ox-eyed daisies hail the sun, And sprinkle all the acres bright With golden stars of radiant light

Amid the feathery grasses dun.

The plaintive brook reflects the glow
of rows of bleeding cardinal;
The whippoorwill's sweet madrigal

Breathes through the sunset soft and low.

I see the dear Persephone Trailing her purple robes more slow,

Her lovely eyelids drooping low, And gazing pensive o'er the sea.

The fringed gentians kiss her hand, The milkweed waves its soft adieus; Theirtender words she must refuse,

For dark steeds wait upon the strand.

[From Pertepkone.]

Erkwhii.e the sap has had its will,
The bud has opened into leaf
The grain is ripening forthe sheaf,

Demeter's arms have had their fill.

The seed has dropped into the mould,
The flower all its petals shed,
The rattling stalksaredryanddead,

Persephone is still and cold.

For Nature's dream is all fulfilled, Her clinging robes she folds once more,

And glides within her close-locked door,

For all the wine of life is spilled.


0 beautiful new life within my


New life, love-born, more beautiful than day.

I tremble in thy sacred presence,


What holy miracle attends my way!

My heart is hushed, I hear between its beating The angel of annunciation say, "Hail, blessed among women!" while I pray.

O all-creative Love! thy finger touches

My leaping pulses to diviner heat. What am 1, that thy thought of life

should blossom In me, in me thy tide of life should


Beat strong within me, God-tide, in com passion. With quickening spirit earth-born

essence greet! Fountain of life! flow through me pure and sweet.

O all-sustaining Love! come close beside me, — Me, so unworthy of this wondrous gift.

Purge me, refine me, try me as by fire,

Whiten me white as snow in glacier-rift,

That neither spot, nor stain nor

blemish darken These elements that now to being


Inspire, sustain me, all my soul uplift!

O all-sufficient Love 1 I am as nothing;

Take me, thy way, most facile to

thy need; Enraptured, let me feel thy spirit

moulding The germ that thou hast made a

living seed. And while the currents of my life are

speeding This life immortal in its growth to


To one dear purpose, all my forces lead!

Ellen Mackay Hutchinson.


The tide slips up the silver sand,

Dark night and rosy day;
It brings sea-treasures to the land,

Then bears them all away.
On mighty shores from east to west
It wails, and gropes, and cannot

O tide, that still doth ebb and flow

Through night to golden day: — Wit, learning, beauty, come and go,

Thou giv'st— thou tak'st away. But sometime, on some gracious shore,

Thou shalt lie still and ebb no more.


Dost know the way to Paradise? Pray, tell me by thy grace.

"Any way thou canst devise That leads to my love's face — For that's his dwelling-place."

How far is it to Paradise?
"Ah, that I cannot say;

Time loiters and my heart it flies -
A minute seems a day
Whene'er I go that way."

The Prisce.

September waves his golden-rod
Along the lanes and hollows,

And saunters round the sunny fields
A-playing with the swallows.

The corn has listened for his step,
The maples blush to greet him.

And gay coquetting Sumach dons
Her velvet cloak to meet him.

Come to the hearth. O merry prince,
With flaming knot and ember;

For all your tricks of frosty eyes,
We love your ways, September!


Red leaf, gold leaf, flutter down the wind: Life is brief, oh! Life is brief, But Mother Earth is kind; From her dear bosom ye shall spring To new blossoming.

The red leaf, the gold leaf, They have had their way; Love is long if life be brief, —

Life is but a day; And love from grief and death shall spring To new blossoming.

Helen Jackson

(II. H.).

the Last Words.

[The last words written by Dr. Holland, Oct. 1Kb., ISsl, — referring to President Garfield: "By sympathy he drew all hean* to him.") I,

We may not choose! Ah, if we

might, how we Should linger here, not ready to be


Till one more loving thing were

looked, or said,— Till some dear child's estate of joy

should be Complete,—or we triumphant, late,

should see

Some great cause win for which our hearts had bled. —

Some hope come true which all our lives had fed,—

Some bitter sorrow fade away and flee,

Which we, rebellious, had too bitter thought;

Or even, — so our human hearts would cling,

If but they might, to this fair world inwrought

With heavenly beauty in each smallest thing,

We would refuse to die till we had sought

One violet more, heard one more robin sing!


We may not choose: but if we did

foreknow The hour when we should pass from

human sight, What words were last that we should

say, or write, Could we pray fate a sweeter boon

to show

Than bid our last words burn with

loving glow of heartfelt praise, to lift, and make

more bright A great man's memory, set in clearer


Ah yes! Fate could one boon more

sweet bestow: So frame those words that every

heart which knew. Should sudden, awe-struck, weeping

turn away, And cry: "His own hand his best

wreath must lay! Of his own life, his own last words

are true,

So true, love's truth no truer thing

can say, — "By sympathy, all hearts to him he



Month which the warring ancients

strangely styled The month of war,—as if in their

fierce ways

Were any month of peace! — in thy

rough days, I find no war in nature, though the


Winds clash and clang, and broken

boughs are piled At feet of en trees. The violets


Their heads without affright, or look of maze,

And sleep through all the din, as

sleeps a child. And he who watches well, will well


Sweet expectation in each living thing.

Like pregnant mother, the sweet

earth doth yearn; In secret joy makes ready for the


And hidden, sacred, in her breast

doth bear Annunciation hlies for the year.


Some flowers are withered and some

joys have died; The garden reeks with an East Indian


From beds where gillyflowers stand

weak and spent; The white heat pales the skies from

side to side; At noonday all the living creatures


But in still lakes and rivers, cool, content.

Like starry blooms on a new firmament,

White lilies float and regally abide.
In vain the cruel skies their hot rays


The lily does not feel their brazen "glare;

In vain the pallid clouds refuse to share

Their dews: the lily feels no thirst,

no dread: Unharmed she lifts her queenly face

and head; She drinks of living waters and keeps



Quaint blossom with the old fantastic name, By jester christened at some ancient feast! How royally to-day among the least Considered herbs, it flings its spice

and flame. How careless wears a velvet of the same

Unfathomed red, which ceased when Titian ceased

To paint it in the robes of doge and priest.

Oh, long lost loyal red which never came

Again to painter's palette — on my sight

It flashes at this moment, trained

and poured through my nasturtiums in the

morning light. Like great-souled kings to kingdoms

full restored. They stand alone and draw them to

their height. And shower me from their stintless

golden hoard.

Lucia W. Jennison


There came a breath, out of a distant time.

An odor from neglected gardens where

Unnumbered roses once perfumed the air

Through summer days, in childhood's happy clime.

There came the salt scent of the sea, the chime

Of waves against the beaches or the bare,

Gaunt rocks; as to the mind, half unaware,

Recur the words of some familiar rhyme.

And as above the gardens and the sea

The moon arises, and her silver light touches the landscape with a deeper grace,

So o'er the misty wraiths of memory, Turning them into pictures clear

and bright, Rose in a halo the beloved face.


Against her mouth she pressed the

rose, and there, 'Neath the caress of lips as soft and


As its own petals, quick the bright

bud spread And oped, and flung its fragrance on

the air.

It ne'er again a bud's young grace

can wear? O love, regret it not! It gladly


Its soul for thee, and though thou

kiss it dead It does not murmur at a fate so


Thus, once, thou breath'dst on me, till every germ

Of love and song broke into rapturous flower,

And sent a challenge upwards to the sky,

What if too swift fruition set a term

Too brief to all things? I have lived my hour,

And die contented since for thee I die.


Suppose the dreaded messenger of death

Should hasten steps that seem, though sure, so slow,

And soon should whisper with his chilly breath:

"Arise! thine hour has sounded, thou must go;

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