Ay, men may wonder while they scan
A living, thinking, feeling man

Confirmed in such a rest to keep;
But angels say, and through the word
I think their happy smile is heard—
"He giveth His beloved-sleep."

For me, my heart that erst did go
Most like a tired child at a show,

That sees through tears the murmurs leap,

Would now its wearied vision close,
Would childlike on His love repose,
Who giveth His beloved-sleep.

And friends, dear friends, when it shall be
That this low breath is gone from me,
And round my bier ye come to weep,

Let One, most loving of you all,
Say "Not a tear must o'er her fall!
He giveth His beloved sleep."

-Elizadeth Barrett Browning.

L

EVENING SONG

OOK off, dear Love, across

the sallow sands,

And mark yon meeting of

the sun and sea;

How long they kiss in sight

of all the lands!

Ah, longer, longer we.

Now in the sea's red vintage melts the

sun,

As Egypt's pearl dissolved in rosy wine,

And Cleopatra Night drinks all. "Tis

done!

Love, lay thy hand in mine.

Come forth, sweet stars, and comfort heaven's heart;

Glimmer, ye waves, round else unlighted sands;

O Night, divorce our sun and moon

apart,

Never our lips, our hands.

-Sidney Lanier.

D

TO MY SON

O you remember, my sweet,

absent son,

How in the soft June days forever done

You loved the heavens so

warm and clear and high;

And when I lifted you, soft came your

cry:

"Put me 'way up-'way up in the blue sky?"

I laughed and said I could not; set you down,

Your gray eyes wonder-filled beneath that crown

Of bright hair gladdening me as you raced by.

Another Father now, more strong than I,

Has borne you voiceless to your dear

blue sky.

-George Parsons Lathrop.

T

the sea,

SUNRISE

HE sky is laced with fitful

red,

The circling mists and shadows flee,

The dawn is rising from

Like a white lady from her bed.

And jagged brazen arrows fall

Athwart the feathers of the night, And a long wave of yellow light Breaks silently on tower and hall.

And spreading wide across the wold Wakes into flight some fluttering bird, And all the chestnut tops are stirred And all the branches streaked with gold.

-Oscar Wilde.

H

TO A SKYLARK

AIL to thee, blithe spirit!
Bird thou never wert,
That from heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart

In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher and still higher,

From the earth thou springest

Like a cloud of fire;

The blue deep thou wingest,

And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

In the golden lightning

Of the sunken sun,

O'er which clouds are brightening,
Thou dost float and run;

Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

The pale purple even

Melts around thy flight;

Like a star of heaven,

In the broad daylight

Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill

delight.