Heart to heart was never known; Of a temple once complete. Like the stars that gem the sky, What is social company But a babbling summer stream? But the glancing of a dream? Only when the sun of love Melts the scattered stars of thought, What the dim-eyed world hath taught, Only when our souls are fed By the fount which gave them birth, Which they never drew from earth, We, like parted drops of rain, Melting, flowing into one. C. P. CRANCH. There is a kingliness in death that surpasses the royalty of life The meaning of the one lies bare and unsatisfying before us; the significance of the other is shrouded in such mystery, and is so full of promise and high possibilities, that we cannot think of it without awe and envy of those who have passed through the silent gate. A KING. It is more than being great To repose with placid eyes, And know not of the wild world that it cries, cries, cries! Look ye now, and answer true If it be as well with you, That fret and sweat and sin As with him that bates his breath, And what empty words it saith, To attain the life diviner, which is death, death, death! What of pleasure shall he miss, Shall ye call him from this haughty sleep and calm, calm, calm ? Lo, his dumb face turns ye dumb If to look on him ye come, Who hath found in cold eclipse A superb Apocalypse! Who has had the last bad thing Who is crowned as none but Death could crown him, king, king, king! EDGAR FAWCETT. The poem we have just given finds its fit appendix in the following, which might, as a companion-piece, have been entitled "A Queen." RELEASED. A little, low-ceiled room. Four walls Her world. Scarce furthermore she knew And frames it with the restless sea. Four closer walls of common pine; Regardless now of work to do, No queen more careless in her state, Put by her implements of toil; Put by each coarse, intrusive sign: Put by, at last, beneath the lid, The exempted hands, the tranquil face; And bear her gently from the place. Oft she hath gazed, with wistful eyes, Oft she hath pressed, with aching feet, Those broken steps that reach the door: MRS. A. D. T. WHITNEY. The love that reaches from heaven to earth, and stretches out striving hands of desire, warm with efforts to rend the veil of invisibility that divides the life here from the life hereafter, is rendered with fine feeling in the poem below. ANYWHERE. She was old, and wan, and wrinkled, Lightly touched her soft brown hair. Yet if in those lands immortal She doth youth and beauty wear, Shall I dwell in mournful waiting, While God's blessed angels daily Wander down the shining stair? Should you touch me e'er so lightly, And your spirit hand should linger Had I been the first to wander From earth's dust, and din, and glare, M. E. CLARKE. A fine thought, beautifully expressed, is embodied in the two verses which follow, the contribution of an anonymous author, deeply instinct with the poetry of thoughtfulness and sentiment. |