WILLIAM WINTER.

Only this our yearning answers, -whereso'er that way defile,

Not a film shall part us through the æons of that mighty while,

In the fair eternal weather, even as phantoms still together,

SONG.

IN the summer twilight,

While yet the dew was hoar, I went plucking purple pansies Till my love should come to shore. The fishing-lights their dances

Were keeping out at sea, And, "Come," I sang, "my true love, Come hasten home to me!"

But the sea it fell a-moaning,

And the white gulls rocked thereon, And the young moon dropped from heaven, And the lights hid, one by one.

All silently their glances

Slipped down the cruel sea,

And, "Wait," cried the night and wind and storm,

"Wait till I come to thee."

To sunrise and the winds of morn, And every grandeur that has been Since this all-glorious world was born, Nor longer droop in my own scorn.

Come, when the way grows dark and chill,
Come, when the baffled mind is weak,
And in the heart that voice is still

Which used in happier days to speak,
Or only whispers sadly meek.

Come with a smile that dims the sun!

With pitying heart and gentle hand! And waft me, from a work that's done, To peace that waits on thy command, In God's mysterious better land!

WILLIAM WINTER.

[U. s. A.]

AZRAEL.

COME with a smile, when come thou must, Evangel of the world to be,

And touch and glorify this dust,

This shuddering dust that now is me,
And from this prison set me free!

Long in those awful eyes I quail,

That gaze across the grim profound: Upon that sea there is no sail,

Nor any light, nor any sound,
From the far shore that girds it round.

Only two still and steady rays,
That those twin orbs of doom o'ertop;
Only a quiet, patient gaze
That drinks my being, drop by drop,
And bids the pulse of nature stop.

A weakness for the weaker side,
A siding with the helpless weak.

A palm not far held out a hand;
Hard by a long green bamboo swung,
And bent like some great bow unstrung,
And quivered like a willow wand;
Beneath a broad banana's leaf,
Perched on its fruits that crooked hung,
A bird in rainbow splendor sung
A low, sad song of tempered grief.

No sod, no sign, no cross nor stone, But at his side a cactus green Upheld its lances long and keen; It stood in hot red sands alone, Flat-palmed and fierce with lifted spears; One bloom of crimson crowned its head, A drop of blood, so bright, so red, Yet redolent as roses' tears. In my left hand I held a shell, All rosy lipped and pearly red; I laid it by his lowly bed, For he did love so passing well The grand songs of the solemn sea. O shell! sing well, wild, with a will, When storms blow hard and birds be still, The wildest sea-song known to thee!

I said some things, with folded hands,
Soft whispered in the dim sea-sound,
And eyes held humbly to the ground,
And frail knees sunken in the sands.
He had done more than this for me,
And yet I could not well do more:
I turned me down the olive shore,
And set a sad face to the sea.

Brave old water-dogs, wed to the sea, First to their labors and last to their rests.

Ships are moving! I hear a horn;
A silver trumpet it sounds to me,
Deep-voiced and musical, far a-sea. . .
Answers back, and again it calls.
'Tis the sentinel boats that watch the town
All night, as mounting her watery walls.
And watching for pirate or smuggler.
Down

Over the sea, and reaching away,
And against the east, a soft light falls,
Silvery soft as the mist of morn,

And I catch a breath like the breath of day.

The east is blossoming! Yea, a rose,
Vast as the heavens, soft as a kiss,
Sweet as the presence of woman is,
Rises and reaches and widens and grows
Right out of the sea, as a blossoming tree;
Richer and richer, so higher and higher,
Deeper and deeper it takes its hue;
Brighter and brighter it reaches through
The space of heaven and the place of stars,
Till all is as rich as a rose can be,
And my rose-leaves fall into billows of fire.
Then beams reach upward as arms from

SUNRISE IN VENICE.

NIGHT seems troubled and scarce asleep;
Her brows are gathered in broken rest;
Sullen old lion of dark St. Mark,
And a star in the east starts up from the
deep;

White as my lilies that grow in the west.
Hist! men are passing hurriedly.
I see the yellow wide wings of a bark
Sail silently over my morning-star.
I see men move in the moving dark,
Tall and silent as columns are,--
Great sinewy men that are good to see,
With hair pushed back and with open

breasts;

Barefooted fishermen seeking their boats, Brown as walnuts and hairy as goats,

UNKNOWN.

DIFFERENT POINTS OF VIEW.

SAITH the white owl to the martin folk, In the belfry tower so grim and gray: "Why do they deafen us with these bells? Is any one dead or born to-day?"

A martin peeped over the rim of its nest, And answered crossly: "Why, ain't you heard

That an heir is coming to the great estate?"

"I 'ave n't," the owl said, "pon my word.'