Primavera | Page 5

made vain,
The wounds, the
weariness, of life.
And losing that forgetful sphere,
For some less
troubled world I sigh,
If not divine, more free, more clear,
Than this
poor, soil'd humanity.
But when, in trances of the night,
Wakeful, my lonely bed I keep,


And linger at the gate of Sleep,
Fearing, lest dreams deny me light;

Her image comes into the gloom,
With her pale features moulded fair,

Her breathing beauty, morning bloom,
My heart's delight, my
tongue's despair.
With loving hand she touches mine,
Showers her soft tresses on my
brow,
And heals my heart, I know not how,
Bathing me with her
looks divine.
She beckons me; and I arise;
And, grief no more
remembering,
Wander again with rapturous eyes
Through those
enchanted lands of Spring.
Then, as I walk with her in peace,
I leave this troubled air below,

Where, hurrying sadly to and fro,
Men toil, and strain, and cannot
cease:
Then, freed from tyrannous Fate's control,
Untouch'd by
years or grief, I see
Transfigured in that child-like soul
The soil'd
soul of humanity.
LAURENCE BINYON.
A LAMENT
Over thy head, in joyful wanderings
Through heaven's wide spaces,
free,
Birds fly with music in their wings;
And from the blue, rough
sea
The fishes flash and leap;
There is a life of loveliest things

O'er thee, so fast asleep.
In the deep West the heavens grow heavenlier,
Eve after eve; and still

The glorious stars remember to appear;
The roses on the hill
Are
fragrant as before:
Only thy face, of all that's dear,
I shall see
nevermore!
MANMOHAN GHOSE.
UNDINES OF DIVERSE DAYS
I

The eyes of heaven were on her bent,
In a rapture of loving
wonderment,
As her song with the nightingale's was blent:
And one
yearn'd for a love, and one sigh'd for a soul!
Moonlight and starlight alike seemed cold,
As their silver glanced on
her locks of gold;
And the dream on her face was a dream of old,

Whose sorrow no sunrise might smile away.
I read her yearning and weary smile,
As her song rang sadder and
sadder the while,
With its weird refrain of a magic isle,
Where
some might have rest, but never might she!
She, the darling of Sky and Stream,
She was but as wind, or as wave,
or as dream,
To play for a while in life's glory and gleam:
But what
would be left at the end of the day?
II
The sun smiles down upon her distress
With a tyrant smile most
pitiless,
As she stitches away in her tatter'd dress,
With a song on
her lips, that sinks in a sigh.
Yet, scorning her dusty window pane,
For all his pride, in love he is
fain
Soft gold on her golden hair to rain;
But no sunlight may soften
that soulless stare.
I read her yearning and weary sigh,
And the eyes that would be, but
are not, dry;
And I catch the voice of that voiceless cry
For a
moment to rest, for a moment to weep.
She, the darling of Want and Woe,
Why was she sent, save to work
and to go
With feet that will ever more weary grow?
Whither? she
has not a moment to care!
The Undine of olden days, I read,
By the love of a soul from her
trammels was freed:
Knows there another such dolorous need?
Sure

on the earth lingers yet such a soul!
ARTHUR S. CRIPPS.
A DREAM
My dead love came to me, and said,
'God gives me one hour's rest,

To spend with thee on earth again:
How shall we spend it best?'
'Why, as of old,' I said; and so
We quarrell'd, as of old:
But, when I
turn'd to make my peace,
That one short hour was told.
STEPHEN PHILLIPS.

Thou who hast follow'd far with eyes of love
The shy and virgin
sights of Spring to-day,
Sad soul, what dost thou in this happy grove?

Hast thou no pipe to touch, no strain to play,
Where Nature smiles
so fair and seems to ask a lay?
Ah! she needs none! she is too beautiful.
How should I sing her? for
my heart would tire,
Seeking a lovelier verse each time to cull,
In
striving still to pitch my music higher:
Lovelier than any muse is she
who gives the fire!
No impulse I beseech; my strains are vile:
To escape thee, Nature,
restless here I rove.
Look not so sweet on me, avert thy smile!
O
cease at length this fever'd breast to move!
I have loved thee in vain; I
cannot speak my love.
Here sense with apathy seems gently wed:
The gloom is starr'd with
flowers; the unseen trees
Spread thick and softly real above my head;

And the far birds add music to the peace,
In this dark place of sleep,
where whispers never cease.
Hush, then, my pipe; vain is thy passion here;
Vain is the burning

bosom of desire!
Forever hush'd, let me this silence hear,
As a sad
Muse in the melodious choir
Hushes her voice, to catch the happier
voices by her.
Deep-shaded will I lie, and deeper yet
In night, where not a leaf its
neighbour knows;
Forget the shining of the stars, forget
The vernal
visitation of the rose;
And, far from all delights, prepare my heart's
repose.
Strive how