IN BOOKLAND. POETRY.

Evening Post, Volume LXXV, Issue 48, 26 February 1908, Page 4

IN BOOKLAND. POETRY.

EVENIjfc. (By Madison Ctiweiti). The climbing cricket in Iho dusk Moves wings of mo^sy gtiee iimr ; Its vague, vibrating: noto I hear Among the houghs of clew fml music, V- hence, riiftlmg with a mellow thud, Tho ripe quince falls. Low, deep, and dear The west is bound with burning blood. The slanting bats benciih flhfi moon A dfrk disk edged with glittering whiteSpin loops of intertangled might : An owl wakes, hootfntr over «oor, Within the forest far away : . _*nd now the heov"a Mis, light by light, And all the. blood-red west gr<w« 6r»y« I hear no »ound of wind or wave, No sob or song except the slow Leaf crickets" flut«-6oft tremolo. Among wet walks grown gray and grave. In raiment mists of silver scar With strange, pale eves thou eomest, O . Thoil Spiri* of the, wan ing-year! From "Intimations of the Beautiful." MORNING IN THE NORTH-WEST. (By Arthur Stringer.) Gray ccuntrle© md grim empires pass away And all the pomp and glory of citird towera Goes dawn to dust ; and youth itself shall age. But, oh, the splendour of this autumn dawn, Thia passes not awav-1 This dew drenched raage, This infinite great "width, of open space, This cool, keen wind that blows liko Obd's own Breatb On life's once, drowsy coal, and thrills the blood, This brooding v sea-, of sun-washed' solitude, This xrirßinal va6t«dome of open air — Theee,' these endnr'o, and greater are than grief I Still there i» strength; and life, oh, life ia good! Still tho horizon calls, the morrow lures; Still hearts \adventurous seek outward trail*; Still, «4ilM!f« halite its hope I For here is air and God"? good greennetri spread ! Here yctrth audacious fronts the coining dayl Here- are no huddled cities old in sin, Vftiere teem repiiltous mirth. and golden ease And age on youth so mountnlnousfy He»! ' Here life takes on a glory and a strength Of things still primal, and goe? plunging on! And what care we for time-incrueted tpmbe? And what care we for all ihe cwiseless drip Of tears in. oountries old in tragedy? What care we her© for all earth's creeds outworn. And dreams outlived, the hopes to ashes turned, In that old East so dark with rain and doubt? Hero life swings glad and free and rude, and youth Shall drink it to the full and go content, — M'Clure'a.