I turn away. It is the hour of fate, And they who follow me reach every state Save death; but those who doubt or hesitate, John James Ingalls. OPPORTUNITY THEY do me wrong who say I come no more And bid you wake, and rise to fight and win. Wail not for precious chances passed away! Dost thou behold thy lost youth all aghast? Art thou a mourner? Rouse thee from thy spell; Art thou a sinner? Sins may be forgiven; Each morning gives thee wings to flee from hell, Each night a star to guide thy feet to heaven. Laugh like a boy at splendors that have sped, To vanished joys be blind and deaf and dumb; THE CRICKET My judgments seal the dead past with its dead, 241 Though deep in mire, wring not your hands and weep; I lend my arm to all who say "I can!” No shame-faced outcast ever sank so deep But yet might rise and be again a man! Walter Malone. THE RACERS TIME at my elbow plucks me sore; Upon my hair he dusts his rime; I shake my head full laughingly, He shall not outstrip me. James B. Kenyon. THE CRICKET PIPER of the fields and woods And the fragrant solitudes, When the trees are stripped of leaves, When the golden-rod alone Feigns the summer hath not flown; Then while evening airs grow chill, And the flocks upon the hill Huddle in the waning light, And afar Theocritus Slumbers deep, O piper small, PREVISION And he will not heed at all Though be struck thy shrillest notes; O'er him where thy shy kin be 'Mid the dews of Sicily. 243 James B. Kenyon. PREVISION Он, days of beauty standing veiled apart, The long brown fields no longer drear and dull Burn with the glow of these deep-hearted hours, Until the dry weeds seem more beautiful, More spiritlike than even summer's flowers. But yesterday the world was stricken bare, Awakes the soul of vanished light and bloom? Sharp with the clean, fine ecstasy of death, A mightier wind shall strike the shrinking earth, An exhalation of creative breath Wake the white wonder of the winter's birth. In her wide Pantheon - her temple place Wrapped in strange beauty and new comforting, We shall not miss the Summer's full-blown grace, Nor hunger for the swift, exquisite Spring. Ada Foster Murray. THE SPIRIT OF THE FALL COME, on thy swaying feet, Wild Spirit of the Fall! With wind-blown skirts, loose hair of russet-brown, Crowned with bright berries of the bittersweet. Trip a light measure with the hurrying leaf, With laughter over-gay, sweet eyes drooped down, Dare not to pause for rest Lest the slow tears should gather to their fall. But when the cold moon rises o'er the hill, There, on a winter dawn, thy corse I found, Danske Dandridge. DIES ULTIMA WHITE in her woven shroud, Silent she lies, Deaf to the trumpets loud Blown through the skies; Never a sound can mar Her slumber long: She is a faded star, A finished song! |