A A MAN'S IDEAL. LOVELY little keeper of the home, Absorbed in menu books, yet erudite She must be chaste as proud Diana was, To me as ardent as the sensuous rose That yields its sweetness to the burrowing bee. All ignorant of evil in the world, And innocent as any cloistered nun, Yet wise as Phrynne in the arts of love When I come thirsting to her nectared lips. Good as the best, and tempting as the worst, A saint, a siren, and a paradox. WAR SONNETS. I. WAR is destructive, wasteful, brutal, yet WAR The energies of men are brought to play, And hidden valor by occasion met Leaps to the light, as precious jewels may When earthquakes rend the rock. The stress and strain Of war stirs men to do their worst and best. Heroes are forged on anvils hot with pain And splendid courage comes but with the test Some natures ripen and some virtues bloom Only in blood-red soil; some souls prove great Only in moments dark with death or doom. This is the sad historic jest which fate Flings to the world, recurring time on time. Many must fall that one may seem sublime. II. Above the chaos of impending ills, Through all the clamor of insistent strife, Now while the noise of warring nations fills Each throbbing hour with menaces to life, I hear the voice of Progress! Strange indeed The shadowed pathways that lead up to light. But as a runner sometimes will recede That he may so accumulate his might, Rushes resistless to the goal with ease, Slips back to war, that it may speed to peace. MY LAUNCH AND I. WHAT glorious times we have together, WHAT My launch and I, in the summer weather! My trim little launch with its sturdy sides And its strong heart beating away as it glides Wherever our fancy may lead away, My boat has never a braggart sail, To boast in the breeze, in the calm to quail, No tyrant boom deals a sudden blow, Saying, "You are my lackey, bend low, bend low!". No mast struts over a windless sea To show how powerless pride may be. But sure and steady and true and staunch Ready and willing and quick to feel The slightest touch of my hand on the wheel Down under the waves of a rolling sea Oh, my gay little launch is the boat for me! Ofttimes when the great Sound seethes and swirls I carry a cargo of laughing girls. Bare-armed, bare-limbed, and with hanging bair They are bold as mermaids and twice as fair. They swarm from the cabin,-they perch on the prow. When the tenth wave batters them, breast and brow, They bloom the brighter, as sea flowers do While their shrill, sweet merriment bursts anew. And oft when the sunset dyes the bay |