CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD.Stanford Quad.
~Conditioned.~
Dear old pipe, my oldest friend,Brier of darkest hue,How I long to smoke and dream—I'm in love with you.
Good old beer, an oft-tried friend,Best and choicest brew,How I long for you again—I'm in love with you.
Laughing lips and rosy cheeks,Eyes of deepest blue,You I long for most of all—I'm in love with you.
Tempt me not, my dear old friends,I have work to do—Four conditions in a term—For I loved but you.
Brunonian.
~Evening on the Campus.~
Behind a screen of western hillsThe sunset color fades to-night;Along the arching corridorsLong shadows steal with footsteps light.The banners of the day are furled;Thro' darkening space the twilight creepsAnd smooths the forehead of the worldUntil he sleeps.
The oak-trees closer draw their hoods;A bird, belated, wings his dim,Uncertain flight, and far aboveA star looks down and laughs at him;The sky and mountains melt in one;Tall gum-trees range their ranks around;The white walk marks its length uponThe velvet ground.
From out the dusk the chimney points,Like guiding finger, to the skies;Down drops the curtain of the night,And all the plain in darkness lies,
When, as the college buildings seemTo lose their form in shapeless mass,The lights shine out as poppies gleamAmid the grass.
CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD.Four-Leaved Clover.
~Philosophy.~
Shall I grieve because a maidSwore to love me—failed to do it?When we both are old and staid,I shall laugh—and she shall rue it.Shall I grieve, if for a prize,Strive my best—I fail to win it?In the world where honor lies,Medal men are seldom in it.
C.W. CRANNELL.Garnet.
~Bed During Exams.~
(With Apologies to Mr. Stevenson.)
I used to go to bed at night,And only worked when day was light.But now 'tis quite the other way,I never get to bed till day.
I look up from my work and seeThe morning light shine in on me,And listen to a warning knell—The tinkle of the rising bell.
And does there not seem cause to weep,When I should like so much to sleep,I have to sing this mournful lay,I cannot get to bed till day?
CLARA WARREN VAIL.Bryn Mawr Lantern.
~Under Two Flags.~
It's all very wellFor a boy, who can yellFor his own special college through all, without fail.How can I be trueTo the red or the blue,When Will is at Harvard, and Tom is at Yale?
When one comes to call,I must stop in the hallTo see that his pin's in a prominent place,They're both on the crew,And I'm all in a stew,For I'm pledged as a mascot for both in the race!
Dear Will's such a swell,And he dresses so well,(Tom says that he puts on a great deal of dog),His tenor is fineAnd his waltzing divine.But you ought to see Tom do his skirt-dance and clog!
It's all very wellFor a boy, who can yellFor his own special college through all, without fail.Why, I'd gladly be trueTo the red or the blue,If Tom were at Harvard, or Will went to Yale!
JULIET W. TOMPKINS.Vassar Miscellany.
~After the Soirée ~
I beside the blue-gate lying,Round and round all objects flying,Just to reach my bed was trying,After the Soirée.
Now I hear the music stopping,Now the corks from champagne popping,Now the wasted money dropping,After the Soirée,
Now I sleep and now awaken,Find myself by classmates takenTo the bed that I'd forsaken,After the Soirée.
When the light of day comes o'er me,What have I but flunks before me?Greek and Latin, how they bore me,After the Soirée.
F.R.D.B.Garnet.
~A Panacea.~
If your health is not quite right,If you have no appetite,If you cannot sleep at night,Light your pipe.
If conditions round you press,If your stock of cuts grows less,Spoiling all your happiness,Light your pipe.
If your debts upon you weigh,If your bills you cannot pay,As they come in day by day,Light your pipe.
There's no trouble in this land,Lack of wealth, or loss of stand,Loss of health, or lady's hand,Which can this sure cure withstand!Light your pipe.
R.O. RYDER.Yale Record.
~A Toast.~
What though the storm-king growls in rage,And the daylight fast is dimming;We'll add to the score on Mem'ry's page,While the butt with cheer is brimming.
And Love shall be the tapster gay,To draw at nod or winking;And whether the clouds be gold or gray,Here's to the cup and its clinking!
Those moist lips, touched in single bliss,More constant are than lovers';Their foamy depth holds many a kiss,And many a sigh it smothers.
Then ho for the blood of youth, say I,And the mad, glad hopes it bringeth;For the palsied step of Age draws nigh,—"Sanshope,sansjoy!" he singeth.
A. K. LANE.Tuftonian.
~A Ballade of College Girls.~
What do the dear girls learn nowadays,At all the colleges where they go?They've no cane-rushes nor football frays;Whence can their wealth of wisdom flow?Up at Wellesley they learn to row;Gowns and mortar-boards there are swell;They flirt in the shades of "Tupelo":I have been there,—but I won't tell!
The Smith girls had the dramatic craze,And even the critics puffed their show;The Amherst men are loud in their praise;They diet on pickled limes and Poe.At good Mount Holyoke, which some deem slow,They learn to cook and to sweep as well;Along with their Greek they're taught to sew:I have been there,—but I won't tell!
Cornell's "co-eds" have flattering ways;Many a soul they have filled with woe;Up at Vassar they're prone to stays,And no girl there can have a beau;All those beautiful blooms must throwTheir sweetness away where no man may dwell;Rules can be cheated, sometimes, though:I have been there,—but I won't tell!
Girls, the Blue and the Crimson knowHow a tryst is kept after bedtime bell."Hush-sh," you whisper, "be cautious!" Oh,I have been there,—but I won't tell!
F.R. BATCHELDER.Harvard Lampoon.
~Ballade of the Alumna.~
How sadly in these latter days,In search of memories bitter-sweet,We tread the once-accustomed waysWith step grown slow, and lagging feet,—Timed to the pulse's slower beat,—And climb the stair and reach the floor,To find—alas! how time is fleet!Another's name is on the door!
We timid knock, and beg to gazeOn all once ours—are shown a seat,O irony! In sad amazeWe marvel that it looks so neat,Recalling how we used to meetAt gruesome hours in days of yore,—Hours that fate can ne'er repeat:Another's name is on the door.
Our ready chaff, our wordy frays,Conviction backed by young conceit,Have left no echoes; nothing staysTo mark how once we "led the street;"But others come with youthful heat,Nor reck of those who came before,And play their part—their years complete;—Another's name is on the door.
Freshmen, our age with reverence greet,And warning take, though grieved sore,No words delay, no prayers entreat,—Another's name is on the door.
EDITH CHILD.Bryn Mawr Lantern.
~A Banquet Song.~
Comrades, fill the banquet cupBrimming up!Fill it full of love and laughter,Claret lips and kisses after,Crown it with a maiden's smiles,And the foam of magic wiles.Drink it, drain it, clink your glasses,For the love of loving lassesEre it passes!
Fill again, the banquet cupBrimming up!Overflow it with the rosesWhich her timid blush discloses.With her sparkling eyelight sift it,Till it flavored is. Then lift it.Drink it, drain it, clink your glasses,For the love of loving lassesEre it passes!
Comrades, fill a parting cupBrimming up!Flood it in your praise's zest,For the uninvited guest.With her charms and graces fill it,Touch the lips and heartward spill it.Drink it, drain it, clink your glasses,For the love of loving lassesEre it passes!
EDWIN OSGOOD GROVER.Dartmouth Literary Monthly.
~The Senior And The Rose.~
A few faded rose-leaves—A Freshman-year treasure—I view you again with a sigh.Three years have I kept youIn care without measure,And now must I tell you good-by?
A rose that a SeniorOnce dropped and deserted,A rose from the bright banquet-hall,A rose that man gave me,When madly I flirtedWith him at the great Junior Ball.
Alas for the rose-leaves!Confusion o'ercomes me!My cheek is quite crimson with shame!Which rose were you part of?And which Senior was she?And what was that college man's name?
EVA LINNETTE SOULE.Cardinal.
~The American Partridge.~
Neglected minstrel of the single song,Piping at twilight through the russet fields,Thy two soft silver notes, one short, one long,Rich with the careless joy that nature yields,Rise from the stubble round the well-stocked fields,Far from the chattering flock or warbling throng:Bob White!
American! All hail, my countryman!Thy treble, sweet or shrill, delights my ear;A song of freedom ere our race began,A challenger of conquest loud and clear;Bespeaking nature pure as God's first plan,And pride and peace, and quiet ever dear:Bob White!
Southern Collegian.
~To a Chrysanthemum.~
Thou beauteous flower, with heart of gold,Bravely defying winter's cold,When dreary north winds shrilly whistleOver the desolate fields of thistle;Thou comest to bless in beauty's ways,With memories of summer days,When at the touch of gentle showers,Decked were the fields in myriad flowers;Yet more than all I praise to-dayThis blossom bright,Since on her breast it layOnly last night.
JOHN ANGUS THOMPSON.Wesleyan Literary Monthly
~My Treasures.~
My jewels are the drops of dewThat sparkle on the grass,Or break into a thousand bitsWhen ruthless footsteps pass.
My gold bedecks the sunlit cloud,Untouched by human hand;My silver is the sleeping sea,Unshadowed by the land.
My friend is every wooded hill,And every singing brook;For they are always true to me,And wear a kindly look
And yet how few would ever thinkTo count these treasures o'er;But, dreaming oft of Satan's gold,Would ask kind Heaven for more.
Co-heirs of Nature all may be,Although of humble birth;And yet, the miser hugs his gold,While poor men own the earth.
WILBUR DANIEL SPENCER.Dartmouth Literary Monthly,
~A Pasture.~
Rough pasture where the blackberries grow!—It bears upon its churlish faceNo sign of beauty, art or grace;Not here the silvery coverts glowThat April and the angler know.
There sleeps no brooklet in this wild,Smooth-resting on its mosses sleek,Like loving lips upon a cheekSoft as the face of maid or child—Just boulders, helter-skelter piled.
Ungenerous nature but endowsThese acres with the stumps and stocksWhich should be trees, with rude, gray rocks;Over these humps and hollows browse,Daily, the awkward, shambling cows.
Here on the right, a straggling wallOf crazy, granite stones, and thereA rotten pine-trunk, brown and bare,A mass of huge brakes, rank and tall—The burning blue sky over all.
And yet these blackberries! shy and chaste!The noisy markets know no such—So ripe they tumble when you touch;Long, taper—rarer wines they wasteThan ever town-bred topers taste.
And tell me! have you looked o'erheadFrom lawns where lazy hammocks swingAnd seen such bird-throats lent a wing?Such flames of song that flashed and fled?Well, maybe—I'mnot city-bred.
FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES.Wesleyan Literary Monthly.
~Skating Song.~
Moon so bright,Stars alight,Clouds adance, adance;Snow of night,Fleecy white,Silver ice agleam, aglance.High, hey, high, hey,Skimming the smooth, bright way,High, hey, high, hey,Over the ice away.
Cheeks so bright,Face alight,Heart adance, adance;Eyes of night,Brow of white,Silver skates agleam, aglance.High, hey, high, hey,Skimming the smooth, bright way,High, hey, high, hey,Over the ice away.
CORA ISABEL WARBURTON.Smith College Monthly.
~A Mystery.~
Once, a little while ago, 'twas so warm and stillDown here, in this soft, dark place. Now I feel a thrillDarting through me. Shivering, quivering, bursts my wrappage brown,Struggling, striving, something in me reaches up and down.Ah! it must be death, this anguish that I cannot understand.
One inch more,—I lift my head above the parted mould,Oh! what rapture! Falling on me something sweet and gold,Something humming, singing, moving, growing on each side;High above me a blue glory stretching far and wide,—And I know 'twas life, that anguish that I could not understand.
MARY E. HOYT.Bryn Mawr Lantern.
~The Birch-Tree.~
Like a shower, breeze-suspended,Caught and played with by the air,April from the sky descended,Tricked by sunshine unaware,To a pale green fountain fashioned,Silver shaft with airy fling,Tremulous and sun-impassionedIs the birch-tree in the spring.
Like the spirit of the fountain—Seen when earth was yet a child—Leaping, white-armed, from the mountain,Laughing, beckoning, water-wild,Sheen of mist her beauty veiling,Which she only half can hide,Garments o'er her white feet trailing,Seems the birch at summer-tide.
E.A.H.Inlander.
~My Quest.~
Over the meadow and over the hill,Over the heath and heather,I seek for the spot where the dawn-wind sleeps,And slips from its night-bound tether.Is it here? Is it there?Pray tell me whereThe morning zephyrs tarry,That I may bideWhere they crouch and hide,And sip of the dew they carry.
Over the billow and over the wave,Over the vales and valleys,I seek for the spot where the night-wind dreams,And rests from its twilight rallies.Is it here? Is it there?Pray tell me whereThe breath of night lies sleeping,That I may restIn its downy nest,With its breath my eyelids steeping.
W.T.O.Trinity Tablet.
~Lullaby.~
Breezes in the tree-tops high,Sighing softly as you blow,Sing a restful lullaby;Sing the sweetest song you know,Something slow, something low,—Lulla-lullaby.
Barley heads and crested wheat,Swaying gently to and fro,Sing the music of the heat,Sing the drowsiest song you know,Something slow, something low,—Lulla-lullaby.
Brooklet hidden in the grass,Murmuring faintly as you flow,Sing a sleep song while you pass;Sing the dreamiest song you know,Something slow, something low,—Lulla-lullaby.
MABEL A. CARPENTER.Wellesley Magazine.
~Our Scarlet King.~
He comes along the great highwayIn scarlet coat and crown,And high the shrilling trumpets brayAnd fierce his lancers frown.Bright scarlet is his royal crest;Bright scarlet shines his royal vest;Oh! pr'ythee canst thou bringA knight more nobly known and dressedThan this, our Scarlet King.
See how he throws his largess goldInto the bending trees.He doth the forest walls enfoldIn purple tapestries.He giveth all a majesty;He holds in fiel the shore, the sea;Oh! pr'ythee come and singA song, and sing it merrilyTo him, our Scarlet King.
Past crypt and wayside canopy,Beyond each bloarny throne,Full fleetly speed his heralds freeTo make his advent known.His scarlet banners bend and blow;Our scarlet vintages shall flow;And pr'ythee with us sing,That proud October all may knowAnd hail—"our Scarlet King."
HAROLD M. BOWMAN.Inlander.
~Bob White.~
At morn, when first the rosy gleamOf rising sun proclaimed the day,There reached me, thro' my last sweet dream,This oft-repeated lay:(Too sweet for cry.Too brief for song,'Twas borne alongThe reddening sky)Bob White!Daylight, Bob White!Daylight!
At eve, when first the fading glowOf setting sun foretold the night,The same sweet call came, soft and low,Across the dying light:(Too sweet for cry,Too brief for song,'Twas but a long,Contented sigh)Bob White!Good Night, Bob White!Good Night!
FRANCIS CHARLES MCDONALD.Nassau Literary Monthly.
~An Evening Song.~
O red, red clouds in the westering sky,That are lit with a lamp of gold,The hours are faint, they sleep, they die,The stars are earthward rolled;Make bright day's burial-place, make bright,So it crimson-canopied be—It dies, and Fancy out of the nightComes down—comes down to me.
O red, red clouds with your glory gone,That are ghostly shapes of gray.My lady dreams by a moon-lit lawn,Away from me—away;Go down—go down from the sky, so the gleamsOf the moon shine over the sea,And bring the thought of my lady's dreamsOver to me—to me.
ROBERT L. HUNGER.Yale Courant.
~Panacea ~
When life proves disappointing,And sorrow seems anointingBrows of care,Take a brace and go a-sailing,Either dolphin back or whaling,Anywhere.
Fling your troubles to the breezes,Where the salted Ocean sneezesSpray your face—Never mind the moments flying,There'll be left of care and sighing,Not a trace.
ANNIE NYHAN SCEIBNER.Wisconsin Aegis.
~The Dive.~
One moment, poised above the flashing blue,The next I'm slipping, sliding throughThe water, that caresses, yields, resists,Wrapping my sight in cooling, gray-green mists.Another moment, my body swirls, I rise,Shaking the water from my blinded eyes,And strike out strong, glad that I am alive,To swim back to the gray old pile from which I dive.
CORNELIA BROWNELL GOULD.Smith College Monthly.
~The Robin.~
Abstracted, contemplative air,A sudden run and stop,A glance indifferent round about,Head poised—another hop.
A plunge well-aimed, a backward tug,A well-resisted squirm,Then calm indifference as before.But oh, alack, the worm!
KATHERINE VAN D. HARKEE,Vassar Miscellany.
~A Mountain Brook.~
I come from the depths of the mountain,The dark, hidden, head of the fountain,I spring from a nook in the ledges,And bathe the gray granite's rough edges,I rush over wide mossy massesTo quench the hot thirst of the grasses.I bathe the cleft hoofs of the cattle,As o'er the rude ford-stones I rattle.I glide through the glens deep in shadow;I flow in the sun-bathed meadow,And seek, with a shake and a quiver,The still steady flow of the river,Then on to the wild rhythmic motionOf my mother, the sky-tinted ocean.
CHARLES OTIS JUDKINS.Wesleyan Literary Monthly.
~In the San Joaquin.~
Across the hills the screeching blue-jays flyIn countless flocks, and as they hasten byThe children look up from their merry playTo watch them slowly, slowly fade away;And night steals up the corners of the sky.
No silent, trembling star shines there, on high:The hollow rivers, that were still and dry,Begin to murmur; falls a gentle sprayAcross the hills.
The stubble colors through the fallen hay,And infant grasses pin the moistened clay;The drooping trees shake off their dust and sigh;And waking nature, with a gladdened eye,Beholds the summer lose its ending day,Across the hills.
NORMAN HUTCHINSON.Cornell Magazine.
~Four-o'clocks.~
It was that they loved the children,The children used to say,For there was no doubtThat when school was out,At the same time every day,Down by the wall,Where the grass grew tall,Under the hedge of the hollyhocks,One by one,At the touch of the sun,There opened the four-o'clocks.
It was that they loved the children;—But the children have gone away,And somebody goesWhen nobody knows,At the same time every day,To see by the wall,Where the grass grows tall,Under the hedge of the hollyhocks,How, one by one,At the touch of the sun,Still open the four-o'clocks.
LILLIAN B. QUIMBY.Wellesley Magazine,
~The Voice of the West Wind.~
The Wind of the East and the Wind of the NorthFrom the gates of the Sun and the Cold blow forth:They wander wide and they wander free,But never a word do they speak to me;I hear but the voice I know the best,Of my brother-in-blood the Wind of the West,And the word that the West Wind whispers me,Is a message, Heart of my heart, for thee.
Heart of my heart, when the skies hang low,And all day long the light winds blow,When the South, and the East, and the North, are grayAnd the soft rain falls through the autumn day,Then, Light of my soul, canst thou not hearThe voice of the West Wind, soft and clear?"Come," he whispers, and "Come," again,Leave the dull skies and the steady rain,Leave thou the lowlands and chill gray sea,Heart of my own heart, and come with me.
ROBERT PALFREY UTTER.Harvard Monthly
~A Fairy Barcarolle.~
My skiff is of bark from the white birch-tree,A butterfly's wing is my sail,And twisted grasses my cordage be,Stretched taut by the favoring gale.
My cushions are pearly gossamers frail,My mast is a tapering reed,My rudder a blush-rose petal pale,My ballast of wild-flower seed.
Through forests old and meads remoteWe'll sail on the leaf-arched streams,Down the silver rivers of Fancy floatTo the golden sea of dreams.
WILLIAM HOLDEN EDDY.Brown Magazine.
~A Bird's Cradle-Song.~
Weary, weary loves!Day is o'er and past;Every drooping lily bellChimes good-night at last.Softly! nursing windsSwing them to and froWith the tinkle, tinkle, tinkle of the rivulet below.
Even the willow leavesBrooding silence keep;All the great, good world is hushed—Hushed that you may sleep!But in heaven two wee, wee starsDance and whirl and glowTo the tinkle, tinkle, tinkle of the rivulet below.
EVELYN M. WORTHLEY.Mount Holyoke.
~The Wood Orchid.~
A butterfly, wing-weary, came to findA sweet seclusion from the amorous wind,Deep in the pine woods, where the dusky treesShut in the forest's sounding silencesWith close-twined boughs from which the breeze has blownThe fragrance-breathing fragments of the cone.Deeply she drank the nectar of repose.Spreading her downy wings all veined with rose,Upon the gray-green mosses, cool and dank,Languished the sprite, and in a swoon she sank,While a delicious numbness born of deathStilled the soft wings that stirred with each faint breath.One summer morning, while the languid breezeStrayed with a languid murmur thro' the trees,It breathed a kiss upon a folded pairOf pink flushed wings—and found them rooted there.
College Folio.
~A Song.~
Oh, the hopper grass is clattering and flying all the dayRound the tawny, trembling tassels of the corn,While the dreamy, drowsy bumblebee goes bumbling on his way,And the locust in the woodland sounds his horn.
Above the rattling cottonwoods that line the lisping stream,The crow is proudly calling to the sun,And the beetles in the bushes make the summer day a dream,For they hum and cheep until the day is done.
When the lotus-flower closes, and the stars are in the sky,Then the owl awakes and sings a plaintive song,While the crickets in the thickets sing the soothing lullaby,And the katydid is chirping all night long.
S.P.Kansas University Weekly.
~The Skaters.~
Above the frozen floodsGay feet keep time,Steel-shod, their measures beatInsistent rhyme.No cares oppress the heartsGlad youth makes light;The winter skies and happy eyesAlike are bright.
Shores where the summer wavesHave whispered low,Echo the skaters' song,As to and froGlide flitting forms,And watch-fire's glowLeaps into frosty airAnd crimsons snow.
Fly, skaters, with wing'd feet!The night wears on;Be your stroke ne'er so fleet,Night soon is gone.
With morning's dawn, the firesIn ashes lie,And mountains keep their wardSilently by.
GRACE W. LEACHMadisonensis.
~By the Roadside.~
Shy violets among the tangled grass;Red robin, to thine own mate blithely singing,Among the elm-tree boughs so gayly swinging;My love, my true love, down this way will pass.
How shall you know her? By her sunny hair,Her grave, sweet eyes, all pure, no evil knowing:Oh, robin! thou wilt turn to watch her going;There is no maid in all the land so fair.
Shy violets among the tangled grass,Shed forth your richest perfumes 'neath her feet!And gallant robin, when thou seest her pass,Trill out thy merriest lay her ears to greet;And elm-tree branches, drooping low above her,Whisper to her that I came by and love her.
LOUISE R. LOOMIS.Wellesley Magazine.
[Illustration: A WELLESLEY GIRL.]
~"A White Morning"~
Many a morning the trees' slim fingersLift to the blue their frosted tips;Winter has paused beside them, passing,And blown upon them, through icy lips.
After the day has dawned in earnest,Comes a blaze from the soul of things.Some small snow-bird, beneath the window,Beats out life, from his restless wings.
Never trust to the cold and silence;Suns will rise, and the day climb higher.Under the snows are resurrections;Under the frost is hidden fire.
GRACE W. LEACH.Madisonensis.
~Verses.~
What must be must be, little one,The dark night follow the day,And the ebbing tide to the seaward glideAcross the moonlit bay.
What must be must be, little one,The winter follow the fall,And the prying wind an entrance findThrough the chinks of the cottage wall.
What must be must be, little one,The brown hair turn to gray,And the soul like the light of the early nightSlip gently far away.
FORSYTH WICKES.Yale Literary Magazine.
~A Little Parable.~
Just beyond the toiling townI saw a child to-day,With busy little hands of brownMaking toys of clay.
Working there with all his heart,Beneath the spreading trees,He moulded with unconscious artWhatever seemed to please.
Men and fortress, plates and pies,All out of clay he made,Then rubbed with chubby fists his eyes,And slumbered in the shade.
JOHN CLAIR MINOT.Bowdoin Quill.
~When Morning Breaks.~
When morning breaks, what fortune waits for me?What ships shall rise from out the misty sea?What friends shall clasp my hand in fond farewell?What dream-wrought castles, as night's clouds dispel,Shall raise their sun-kissed towers upon the lea?
To-night the moon-queen shining wide and free,To-night the sighing breeze, the song, and thee;But time is brief. What cometh, who can tell,When morning breaks?
To-night, to-night, then happy let us be!To-night, to-night, life's shadowy cares shall flee!And though the dawn come in with chime or knell,When night recalls its last bright sentinel,I shall, at least, have memories left to me,When morning breaks.
EDWARD A. RALEIGH.Cornell Magazine.
~A Lost Memory.~
Listening in the twilight, very long ago,To a sweet voice singing very soft and low.
Was the song a ballad of a lady fair,Saved from deadly peril by a bold corsair,
Or a song of battle and a flying foe?Nay, I have forgotten, 'tis so long ago.
Scarcely half remembered, more than half forgot,I can only tell you what the song was not.
Memory, unfaithful, has not kept that strain,Heard once in the twilight, never heard again.
Every day brings twilight, but no twilight bringsTo my ear that music on its quiet wings.
After autumn sunsets, in the dreaming light,When long summer evenings deepen into night,
All that I am sure of, is that, long ago,Some one sang at twilight, very sweet and low.
PHILIP C. PECK.Yale Literary Magazine.
~The Truth-Seekers.~
They who sought Truth since dawnAnd sought in vain,Now, at the close of day.Come with slow step and faces drawnWith nameless pain,To meet the night half-way.
"She whom we love is not!Of her no sightHad we, nor faintest trace!""Nay, here am I ye sought!"—Beyond the nightThey met her, face to face.
FRANCIS CHARLES MCDONALD.Nassau Literary Monthly.
~To-morrow.~
There is a day which never comesTo light the morning sky,But in our thoughts alone it lives,And there may never die;It holds our hopes of future bliss,Our aspirations high,And life itself is but a pointIn that eternity—To-morrow.
Each sunset brings us nearer thatWhich earth shall not behold,Where, far away beyond the hillsAnd through the clouds of gold,We see a glimpse of brighter hoursThan tongue of bard has told,When marks of time will be effaced,When men will not grow old—To-morrow.
WILBUR DANIEL SPENCER.Dartmouth Literary Monthly.
~From My Window.~
I sit within my little roomAnd see the world pass by,The merry, youthful, thoughtless world,That knows not I am I.
I watch it from my window ledgeBelow me, at its play—It makes an end of foolish things,And thinks the sad ones gay.
And there above I sit, alone,Behind my curtains long,And I but peep, and mock a bit,And sing a bit of song.
EDITH THEODORA AMES.Smith College Monthly.
~To a Friend.~
Your eyes are—but I cannot tellJust what's the color of your eyes,I only know therein doth dwellA something that can sympathize,When selfish love would fail to seeThe depths revealed alone to me.
JOHN GOWDY.Wesleyan Literary Monthly.
~Love and Death.~
Love and deathis all of poets' singing,What sounds else can stir the heavenly breath?What save these can set the lyre-strings ringing:Love and death?What things else in maiden spirit springing?What words else in all the preacher saith?What thoughts else in God, the world forthbringing?
In the moon's pulse and the sea's slow swinging,Death that draws, and love that sighs beneath:Yea, life's wine is mingled; sweet, and stinging,—Love and death.
GEORGIANA GODDARD KING.Bryn Mawr Lantern.
~Opportunity.~
I know not what the future holds—But this I know,Youth is a guest, who on his wayToo soon will go.
Once gone we call to deafened ears.All prayers are vain!For tears of blood, he will not comeBack once again.
Then spread the board of Life, with wineAnd roses drest,Drink deep and long, greet Joy and LoveWhile Youth is guest!
ARTHUR KETCHUM.Williams Literary Monthly,
~To Austin Dobson.~
Not unto you the gods gave wings,To scale the far Olympic height,But made content with simpler things,Your Pegasus takes lower flight.
Yet while into oblivion floatThose vaster songs, sublimely grand—All men are listening to your note,And as they listen, understand.
Sing on, then, while the heart of youthIn glad accordance answ'ring thrills,And life and love have still their truth,As spring has still its daffodils.
ARTHUR KETCHUM.Williams Literary Monthly.
~With a Copy of Keats.~
Like listless lullabies of sail-swept seasHeard from still coves, and dulcet-soft as these,Such is the echo of his perfect song,It lives, it lingers long!
We love him more than all his wonder tales,Sweeter his own song than his nightingale's;No voice speaks, in the century that has fled,So deathless from the dead!
How many stately epics have been tossedRudely against Time's shore, and wrecked and lost,While Keats, the dreaming boy, floats down Time'sseaHis lyric argosy!
FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES.Wesleyan Literary Monthly.
~George Du Maurier.~
"Ah, if we knew; if we only knew for certain."
"Ah, if we onlyknew!" he said,The master—now laid cold and dead—Under the sweetest song joy sangThis, like a burden, ever rang—
"Ah, if we onlyknew!" can we,Now death shows him the certainty,Now he has won his peace thro' pain,Wish him back to the doubt again?
Nay, pass! thou great prince Gentle Heart!Crowned with the deathless days of Art—To that far country—old, yet ever new—The land where all the dreams are true.
ARTHUR KETCHUM.Williams Literary Monthly.
~Lizy Ann.~
"My darter?" Yes, that's Lizy AnnEz full o' grit ez any man'T you ever see! She does the choresDays when I can't git out-o'-doors'Account o' this 'ere rheumatiz,And sees to everything there isTo see to here about the place,And never makes a rueful faceAt housework, like some women do,But does it well—and cheerful, too.
There's mother—she's been bedrid nowThis twenty year. And you'll allowIt takes a grist o' care and waitin'To tend onher. But I'm a-statin'But jest the facts when this I say:There's never been a single dayThat gal has left her mother's sideExcept for meetin', or to rideThrough mud and mire, through rain or snow,To market when I couldn't go.
"She's thirty-five or so?" Yes, moreThan that. She's mighty nigh twoscore.But what's the odds? She's sweet and mildTo me and mother as a child.There doesn't breathe a better thanOur eldest darter, Lizy Ann!
"Had offers?" Wal, I reckon; thoughShe ne'er told me nor mother so.I mind one chap—a likely man—Who seemed clean gone on Lizy Ann,And yet she let the feller slide,And he's sence found another bride.
The roses in her cheeks is gone,And left 'em kinder pale and wan.Her mates is married, dead, or strayedTo other places. Youth nor maidNo longer comes to see her. YetYou'll hear no murmur of regret."My life's a part o' heaven's own plan,"She often says. Thet's Lizy Ann.
EDGAR F. DAVIS.Bowdoin Quill.
~Be Thou a Bird, My Soul.~
Be thou a bird, my soul, and mount and soarOut of thy wilderness,Till earth grows less and less,Heaven, more and more.
Be thou a bird, and mount, and soar, and sing,Till all the earth shall beVibrant with ecstasyBeneath thy wing.
Be thou a bird, and trust, the autumn come,That through the pathless airThou shalt find otherwhereUnerring, home.
A.G.C.Kansas University Weekly.
~God's Acre.~
Oh, so pure the white syringas!Oh, so sweet the lilac bloomIn the Arboretum growingNear a granite tomb!By the arching pepper-branchesLet us tender silence keep;We have come into God's Acre,Where the children sleep.
In the trees the quail are callingTo the rabbits at their play,While the little birds, unknowing,Sing their lives away;In the night-time through the branchesWistfully the young stars peep,But, with all these playmates round them,Still the children sleep.
Once within that leafy shelterSome one hid herself, to rest,With another little dreamerFolded to her breast;And a sense of consolationStealeth unto them that weep,While that mother-heart lies sleepingWhere the children sleep.
Year by year the Christmas berriesRedden in the quiet air,—Year by year the vineyard changes,Buds and ripens there;We give place to other faces,But the years' relentless sweepCometh not into God's Acre,Where the children sleep.
CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD.Four-Leaved Clover.
~Unique.~
His presence makes the Spring to blush.He shines in ample Summer's glow,He kindles Autumn's burning-bush,And flings the Winter's fleece of snow.
Hamilton Literary Monthly.
~A Letter.~
"Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul!"The Chambered Nautilus.
* * * * *
Self, Soul & Co., Architects:
Dear Sirs;I findYour "ad." in theNautilusquite to my mind.Pray build me a mansion (for plans see below)More stately and lofty than this that I know.Dig deep the foundations in reason and truth;I want no pavilion—a fortress forsooth,Secure against windstorms of doctrine and doubt;In style—Emersonian—inside and out.It should, sir, be double, with rooms on each side,For justice and mercy, for meekness and pride;For heating and lighting, it only requiresFaith's old-fashioned candles, and Love's open fires.Write me minimum charges in struggle and stress,And extras in suffering.Yours truly,
C.S.Kalends.
~The Record of a Life.~
He lived and died, and all is passed awayThat bound him to his so-soon-darkened day.He is forgotten in time's sweeping tide;This is his history: He lived—and died!
HENRY DAVID GRAY.Madisonensis.
~Who Knows?~
If when the day has been sped with laughter,Mirth and song as the light wind blows,A sob and a sigh come quickly after—Who knows?
If eyes that smile till the day's completenessDroop a little at evening's close,And tears cloud over their tender sweetness—Who knows?
If lips that laugh while the sun be shining,Curved as fair as the leaf of a rose,Quiver with grief at day's declining—Who knows?
If the heart that seems to know no achingWhile the fair, gold sunlight gleams and glows,Under the stars be bitterly breaking—Who knows?
JESSIE V. KERR.Kalends.
~Inconstancy.~
I sighed as the soul of April fled,And a tear on my cheekTold of the love I had borne the dead—And I signed the cross, and bowed my head—And was sad for a week.
With a carol and catch the May came inWith her wonderful way—And I saucily chucked her under the chin,And tuned me the strings of my violin—And was glad for a day.
FRANCIS CHARLES MCDONALD.Nassau Literary Monthly.
~Yesterday.~
Thou art to me like all the days—They ebb and flow with punctual tides,Leave driftwood—wreckage on the sands,Perhaps a shell besides;Swift, incommunicable, vast,They poise—then perish in the past.
And yet I have not all forgotThose years when every day seemed long,A separate age of joys and play,Of wonder-tales and song;I marvel, Yesterday, to knowThou still art childhood's Long Ago!
FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES.Harvard Advocate.
~The Last Word.~
Life is a boat that is drifting,Riding high, rocking low,While the tide turns.Love is the sands that are shiftingIn and out, to and fro,While the tide turns,
Let the boat drift, no oar to lift,Clear sky above, calm sea below,Till the tide turns.Dream on the shore, wander it o'er;Gold gleam the sands 'neath the sun's glow.Till the tide turns.
Time enough, love, to be lifting'Gainst the waves, then, thy oarWhen the tide turns.Dreams are sweet, love, e'er the shiftingShows how false is the shore,When the tide turns.
ELIZABETH SANDERSON.University of California Magazine.
"_Whence all these verses?" you ask me.Would that I knew!"How came they written?"—You task me,Who can tell, who!Stripping a butterfly's pinionsTo learn how they grew;Wasting a violet's dominionsTo search for the dew;Spoiling the odor, the juices,The flavor, the hue;Rifling the haunts of the Muses,For secrets and clue!
All one can say is: "Sir Quibbler,Once on a time,Songs in the heart of the scribblerSang into rhyme;Latin lost all its enchantment;Logic was worse;Joy claimed its rights; the result isJust 'college verse_.'"
End of Project Gutenberg's Cap and Gown, Selected by Frederic Knowles