That what else could I do?

Walter Learned.

FRUITIONLESS

Ан, little flower, upspringing, azure-eyed,
The meadow-brook beside,

Dropping delicious balms

Into the tender palms

Of lover-winds, that woo with light caress,

In still contentedness,

Living and blooming thy brief summer-day: So, wiser far than I,

That only dream and sigh,

And, sighing, dream my listless life away.

Ah! sweetheart birds, a-building your wee house In the broad-leaved boughs,

OBLIVION

Pausing with merry trill

To praise each other's skill,

And nod your pretty heads with pretty pride;
Serenely satisfied

To trill and twitter love's sweet roundelay: -
So, happier than I,

That, lonely, dream and sigh,

And, sighing, dream my lonely life away.

211

Brown-bodied bees, that scent with nostrils fine
The odorous blossom-wine,
Sipping, with heads half thrust
Into the pollen dust

Of rose and hyacinth and daffodil,

To hive, in amber cell,

A honey feasting for the winter-day: -
So, better far than I,

Self-wrapt, that dream and sigh,

And sighing, dream my useless life away.

Ina Coolbrith.

WHEN THE GRASS SHALL COVER ME

WHEN the grass shall cover me,

Head to foot where I am lying,

When not any wind that blows,
Summer-blooms nor winter-snows,

Shall awake me to your sighing:
Close above me as you pass,
You will say, "How kind she was,'
You will say, "How true she was,"
When the grass grows over me.

When the grass shall cover me,
Holden close to earth's warm bosom,
While I laugh, or weep, or sing,
Nevermore, for anything,
You will find in blade and blossom,
Sweet small voices, odorous,
Tender pleaders in my cause,
That shall speak me as I was
When the grass grows over me.

When the grass shall cover me!
Ah, beloved, in my sorrow

-

Very patient, I can wait,
Knowing that, or soon or late,
There will dawn a clearer morrow:
When your heart will moan: “Alas!
Now I know how true she was;
Now I know how dear she was"
When the grass grows over me!

Ina Coolbrith.

THE POOL OF SLEEP

I DRAGGED my body to the pool of sleep,

Longing to drink; but ere my throbbing lip From the cool flood one Dives-drop might sip, The wave sank fluctuant to some unknown deep. With aching eyes that could not even weep, I saw the dark, deluding water slip,

Slow eddying, down; the weeds and mosses drip With maddening waste. I watched the sweet tide creep A little higher, but to fall more fast.

Fevered and wounded in the strife of men

WYNKEN, BLYNKEN, AND NOD 213

I burned with anguish, till, endurance past,

The fount crept upward; sank, and rose again,— Swelled slowly, slowly, slowly, till at last

My seared lips met the soothing wave, and

then

Arlo Bates.

WYNKEN, BLYNKEN, AND NOD

WYNKEN, Blynken, and Nod one night

Sailed off in a wooden shoe,

Sailed on a river of crystal light

Into a sea of dew.

"Where are you going, and what do you wish?"
The old moon asked the three.

"We have come to fish for the herring-fish
That live in this beautiful sea;

Nets of silver and gold have we,”

Said Wynken,

Blynken,

And Nod.

The old moon laughed and sang a song,
As they rocked in the wooden shoe;
And the wind that sped them all night long
Ruffled the waves of dew;

The little stars were the herring-fish

That lived in the beautiful sea.

"Now cast your nets wherever you wish,

Never afeard are we!"

So cried the stars to the fishermen three,

Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.

All night long their nets they threw

To the stars in the twinkling foam,

Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,

Bringing the fishermen home:

'T was all so pretty a sail, it seemed

As if it could not be;

And some folk thought 't was a dream they'd dreamed

Of sailing that beautiful sea;

But I shall name you the fishermen three:

Wynken,

Blynken,

And Nod.

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,
And Nod is a little head,

And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
Is a wee one's trundle-bed;

So shut your eyes while Mother sings

Of wonderful sights that be,

And

you shall see the beautiful things

As you rock on the misty sea

Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three, —

Wynken,

Blynken,

And Nod.

Eugene Field.

LITTLE BOY BLUE

THE little toy dog is covered with dust,
But sturdy and stanch he stands;
And the little toy soldier is red with rust,
And his musket moulds in his hands.