To the numbing fingers of sudden frost,

And the flail of bitter snow,

The soul of the tree sinks down exhausted,
And cannot bud again.

And that is love forced back by fear,
And robbed of its power to try again
In life's precarious garden!

LOUISE HEDEEN

Carve me a cherub! All of me head and wings,
Resting on shoulderless arms that enclosed me.
What was the heart of me? Always the head of me!
What were my longings but restless wings,

Stretched ever for flight in the wonder of waiting,
The far heard cry of a mate, or an April caprice?
Once in the midst of a spring that I searched for,
Spring that I found at the last, in a moment
Off I flew, leaving the blossoms, the vision:
Leaves of the sky between leaves of the lilac;
Skies in my wings' soft hollows, that nestled
With kisses of eyes closed down in passion.
Up then I soared searching the lips of that sky.
I broke my wing with a clinging tendril and fell,
To a covert of grass and roots, where I brooded,
A beauty forsaken, nursing an endless pain!

WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY (1869-1910)
From "Song-Flower and Poppy"
IN NEW YORK

He plays the deuce with my writing time,
For the penny my sixth-floor neighbor throws;
He finds me proud of my pondered rhyme,
And he leaves me-well, God knows

It takes the shine from a tunester's line
When a little mate of the deathless Nine
Pipes up under your nose!

For listen, there is his voice again,
Wistful and clear and piercing sweet.
Where did the boy find such a strain
To make a dead heart beat?

And how in the name of care can he bear
To jet such a fountain into the air

In this gray gulch of a street?

Tuscan slopes or the Piedmontese?
Umbria under the Apennine?

South where the terraced lemon-trees

Round rich Sorrento shine?

Venice moon on the smooth lagoon?-
Where have I heard that aching tune,
That boyish throat divine?

O hark! How it blooms in the falling dark,
That flower of mystical yearning song:
Sad as a hermit-thrush, as a lark
Uplifted, glad, and strong.

Heart, we have chosen the better part!
Save sacred love and sacred art,
Nothing is good for long.

AT ASSISI

Before St. Francis' burg I wait,
Frozen in spirit, faint with dread;
His presence stands within the gate,
Mild splendor rings his head.
Gently he seems to welcome me:
Know he not I am quick, and he
Is dead, and priest of the dead?

I turn away from the gray church pile;
I dare not enter, thus undone :
Here in the roadside grass awhile

I will lie and watch for the sun.

Too purged of earth's good glee and strife,
Too drained of the honeyed lusts of life
Was the peace these old saints won!

And lo! how the laughing earth says no.
To the fear that mastered me;

To the blood that aches and clamors so
How it whispers "Verily."

Here by my side, marvellous-dyed,

Bold stray-away from the courts of pride, A poppy-bell flaunts free.

St. Francis sleeps upon his hill,

And a poppy-flower laughs down his creed;

Triumphant light her petals spill,

His shrines are dim indeed.

Men build and plan, but the soul of man, Coming with haughty eyes to scan,

Feels richer, wilder need.

How long, old builder Time, wilt bide
Till, at thy thrilling word,

Life's crimson pride shall have to bride

The spirit's white accord,

Within that gate of good estate

Which thou must build us soon or late,
Hoar workman of the Lord?

Heart's Wild-Flower

To-night her lids shall lift again, slow, soft, with vague desire,

And lay about my breast and brain their hush of spirit fire, And I shall take the sweet of pain as the laborer his hire. And though no word shall e'er be said to ease the ghostly sting,

And though our hearts, unhoused, unfed, must still go wandering,

My sign is set upon her head while stars do meet and sing.

Not such a sign as women wear who make their forehead tame

With life's long tolerance, and bear love's sweetest, humblest name,

Nor such as passion eateth bare with its crown of tears and flame.

Nor such a sign as happy friend sets on his friend's dear brow

When meadow-pipings break and bend to a key of autumn woe,

And the woodland says playtime's at end, best unclasp hands

and go.

But where she strays, through blight or blooth, one fadeless flower she wears,

A little gift God gave my youth,-whose petals dim were fears,

Awes, adorations, songs of ruth, hesitancies, and tears.

O heart of mine, with all the powers of white beatitude, What are the dearest of God's dowers to the children of his blood?

How blow the shy, shy wilding flowers in the hollows of his wood?

EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON (1869-)

Luke Havergal

Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal,

There where the vines cling crimson on the wall,

And in the twilight wait for what will come.
The wind will moan, the leaves will whisper some,-
Whisper of her, and strike you as they fall;
But go, and if you trust her she will call.
Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal-
Luke Havergal.

No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies
To rift the fiery night that's in your eyes;
But there, where western glooms are gathering,
The dark will end the dark, if anything:
God slays Himself with every leaf that flies,
And hell is more than half of paradise.
No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies-
In eastern skies.

Out of a grave I come to tell you this,-
Out of a grave I come to quench the kiss
That flames upon your forehead with a glow
That binds you to the way that you must go.
Yes, there is yet one way to where she is,-
Bitter, but one that faith can never miss.
Out of a grave I come to tell you this-
To tell you this.

There is the western gate, Luke Havergal,
There are the crimson leaves upon the wall.
Go,-for the winds are tearing them away,-
Nor think to riddle the dead words they say,
Nor any more to feel them as they fall;
But go! and if you trust her she will call.
There is the western gate, Luke Havergal-

Luke Havergal.

[From "The Children of the Night"; copyright, 1896, 1897, by Edwin Arlington Robinson; published by Charles Scribner's Sons. By permission of the publishers.]

Miniver Cheevy

Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,

Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;

He wept that he was ever born,

And he had reasons.

Miniver loved the days of old

When swords were bright and steeds were prancing; The vision of a warrior bold

Would set him dancing.

Miniver sighed for what was not,

And dreamed, and rested from his labors;
He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot,

And Priam's neighbors.

Miniver mourned the ripe renown

That made so many a name so fragrant;
He mourned Romance, now on the town,
And Art a vagrant.

Miniver loved the Medici,

Albeit he had never seen one;
He would have sinned incessantly
Could he have been one.

Miniver cursed the commonplace,
And eyed a khaki suit with loathing;
He missed the medieval grace

Of iron clothing.

Miniver scorned the gold he sought,
But sore annoyed was he without it;
Miniver thought, and thought, and thought,
And thought about it.

Miniver Cheevy, born too late,

Scratched his head and kept on thinking;
Miniver coughed, and called it fate,

And kept on drinking.

[From "The Town Down the River"; copyright, 1910, by Charles Scribner's Sons. By permission of the publishers.]

The Master

[Supposed to have been written not long
after the Civil War]

A flying word from here and there
Had sown the name at which we sneered,
But soon the name was everywhere,
To be reviled and then revered:
A presence to be loved and feared,
We cannot hide it, or deny

That we, the gentlemen who jeered,
May be forgotten by and by.

He came when days were perilous
And hearts of men were sore beguiled;