ESSAYS IN VERSE.

Evening Post, Volume LXXVII, Issue 108, 8 May 1909, Page 13

ESSAYS IN VERSE.

EVENSONG. Beauty calls and gives no warning, Shadows rise and wander on the day. la the twilight, 111 the quiet evening, We shall rise and familo and go away. Over the flaming leaves Freezes the eky. It is the season grieves, Not you, not I. All our springtimes, all our summers, We have kept' tho longing warm within. Now we leave the after-comers To attain tho dreams we did not win. 0,. we havo wakened, Swoet, and had our birth, And that' 6 the end of earth j And we havo toiled and smiled and kept the light. And that's the end of night. — Ridgeley Torrenoe. Atlantic Monthly. IN A COLLEGE GARDEN. Birds that cry so loud in the old grean bowery garden, Your song is of l^ove ! Love ! Love ! Will yo weary not nor cease? For the loveless soul grows sick, the heart that grey days harden ; I know too well that ye love ! I would ye should hold your p^ace, I, too, havo seen Love rise, like a 6tar; I have marked his setting; I dreamed in my folly and pride that Life without Love wero peace. But if Love should await me yet. in the land of sleep p.nd forgetting — Ah, bird, could you sing me this, I would not your song should cease ! — A. C. Benson. THE TIDE. Beloved, didst thou in thy dreams • Not hear the sea, that all night long Thundered beside tho door, and tossed Flower upon flower of foam among The gaunt grey rocks ; or have thine ears Grown so familiar that they heed The booming of the tide no more Than when tho river to tho reed Sings of the heav'n's height, and the swallow's speed ? Oh, mj3 heart's love is like the 6ea, And whispers to thine ear as oft. I am the shadow that thy step Fellows unheeded with such soft Persistent service. Has thy heart Grown, so familiar that it knows The fragrance of that lovo no moro Than. when the wanton summer throws Tho jasmine's subtler scent to mingle with the rose ? Wero the sea still, wouldst thou then wake afraid ? Wore my lips dumb, wouldst thou within thy soul Wonder and be dismayed ? — H.E.W. Australasian. THE BETTER PRAYER. I thank thee, Lord, for strength of arm To win my bread, And that beyond my need is meat For friend unfed. I thank thee much for bread to live. I thank thee moro for bread to give. I thank theo, Lord, for snug-thatched roof In cold and storm, And that beyond my need is room For friend forlorn. I thank thee much for place to rest, But more for shelter for my guest. I thank thee, Lord, for lavish lovo On mo bestowed, Enough to share with loveless folk To ease their load. Thy lovo to me I ill could spare, But dearer is tho lovo I share. —Robert Davis. Outlook (New York.) ' A SEPTEMBER MIST. The wind had died down in tho darkness, The morning broke misty and pale, The moorland lay dressed for a bridal '. Concealed in a gossamer veil. Till the sun, her magnificent bridegroom, Came over the oreat of tho tor, ! And drew, with tho warmth of his kisses, The veil from the face of the moor. Tho heather was broidered with crystals And girded with shimmering rills; The languorous bloom of September Lay blue on the far-away hills. Tho russet-brown patches of bracken With bryony berries were weft. And dew-spangled filigree cobwebs Showed bits of the bridal veil left. — Jessie- Pope. St. James's Budgot. AMERICA AND ENGLAND. In Armenia it is done, And done beneath the sun — America and England ! Women slaughtered, children 6lain, Men dismombered, lust amain — America and England ! You have chips and seamen true, Why were they given to you — America and England ! Go ! sha.ke the Tyrant's shores — Go 1 thunder at his doors — America and England ! Complications — policy, Mean naught upon thesee sea — America and England ! The nations may surmiso All men will sympathise, America and England ! — Rev James Milne. Thames Star. TPIE WOMAN TO THE PORTRAIT. Doar little girl, with the pictured face Gazing in mine 60 sweetly, You charm my heart with your winsome grace, But you puzzle my brain completely. Can it bo true that we once were one, That mine was this visage smiling — Tell me, wheVe has that high look gone, With its innocence pure, beguiling '! Dear little girl, with tho brow serene, And the radiance all unshaded, Yours %yas a beautiful soul, I woen, How has its calm faith faded ? Can it be true that so iong ago I shared your vision's glory — Tell me, did I those fancies know That make up a child's pure story? Dear littlo girl', -with the ideals high, Facing life's struggle bravely, Did I spoil your faith as the days went by That your eyes search mine so gravely ? Can it be true that in me you died (Though your memory may outlive me) That yours was the nature my tired years hide? — Dear little girl, forgive me ! —Ethel Colson. Chicago Herald.