Or some gaunt castle lures me up its stair; I see, far off, the red-tiled hamlets shine, And now I linger in green English lanes, Now at Tangier, among the packed bazaars, Cloths of Damascus, strings of amber dates; What would Howadji . . . silver, gold, or stone? All this is mine, as I lie dreaming here, High on the windy terrace, day by day; And mine the children's laughter, sweet and clear, For me the clouds; the ships sail by for me; For me the petulant sea-gull takes its flight; And mine the tender moonrise on the sea, PRESCIENCE. The new moon hung in the sky, the sun was low in the west, And lo! in the meadow-sweet was the grave of a little child, With a crumbling stone at the feet and the ivy running wild— Tangled ivy and clover folding it over and over: Close to my sweetheart's feet was the little mound up-piled. Stricken with nameless fears she shrank and clung to me, And her eyes were filled with tears for a sorrow I did not see: Lightly the winds were blowing, softly her tears were flowing— Tears for the unknown years and a sorrow that was to be! UNSUNG. As sweet as the breath that goes In slumber, a hundred times I've said the enchanted rhymes, But ere I open my eyes Of the interfluent strains Not even a note remains: I know by my pulses' beat I strive, but I strive in vain, Elizabeth Akus Allew DROUGHT. The sun uprises, large and red, The famished fountains and brooks are dry; All things languish and fade and pine; Rain-clouds promise, then burn away; Sadly adown the orchard lines The apples shrivel and shrink and fall; The scanty clusters among the vines Wilt, half-ripe, on the scorching wall; The peaches perish before their prime, Stand the ranks of the curling corn. No longer the cool and gurgling songs The ringing rasp of the locust comes Piercing the sense like a wedge of sound; The wasp from his nest in the gable hums, And the cricket shrills from the ground. The hard dry grasshopper, snugly hid, Chime with the rattle of sharded wings; Open-billed, with his wings a-droop, The wren sits silent, and seeks no more The half-built nest in the sunny stoop, Or the children's crumbs by the open door; Rustling with dead and brittle stalks The paths of the garden are thick with dust; And the rows of flower-beds down the walks Are baked to an ashy crust. Parched to blackness the roses die, Robbed of sweetness and form and hue; |