GOD KNOWS.

God only knows what fate the coming morrow
Holds in its close-shut hand-

What wave of joy, what whelming tide of sorrow,
May flood my heart's dry land.

But whether laughter, with its bounding billow,
Rolls up in joyous swell,

Or sorrow darkly flows beneath the willow,
I still will say, 'tis well.

And I will strew my seed upon the waters-
The sweet soil lies below-

Whether with smiles or tears it little matters,
So it may spring and grow.

I know my hand may never reap its sowing;
And yet some other may,

And I may never even see it growing-
So short my little day!

Still must I sow. Though I may go forth weeping,
I cannot, dare not stay;

God grant a harvest! though I may be sleeping
Under the shadows gray.

I know not but the ruthless frosts may wither,
The worm may eat the rose;

There may not be one flower or sheaf to gather.
Blindly I wait-God knows.

-Ellen P. Allerton.

A DIRGE.

The wind of autumn blows,

So cold, so cold;

The wind of autumn blows,

Dead is the summer rose,

And the withered grass lies rotting on the mould.

The frost creeps 'round the door,

So still, so still;

The frost creeps 'round the door,

The cricket sings no more,

No more at twilight pleads the whippoorwill.

I hear the owlet's cry,

Forlorn, forlorn;

I hear the owlet's cry,

While the waning moon is high,

And the raccoon's greedy call among the

corn.

I mourn the summer dead,

So soon, so soon;

I mourn the summer dead,

With all its glory fled,

As I stand beneath the frosty waning moon.

And I think how life is going

So fast, so fast!

I think how life is going,

How swift its tides are flowing,

How we scarcely hail our summer, ere 'tis

MOODS OF MARCH.

Wild is the dance abroad to-night,
As the drifts whirl to and fro;
Loud is the voice of the raging storm,
As the fierce gusts come and go;
Black are the panes where the black night leans
Like a homeless ghost in the snow.

Black are the panes where the black night leans;
Within, it is warm and light;

The fire purrs low and the kettle sings,
And the lamps shine soft and bright.
Little care we for the wind and the cold,
And little care we for the night.

What is that cry, out-voicing the storm,
That sounds on the drifted plain?
What is that throbbing, thunderous roar?
It is only the midnight train,
Screaming and thundering through the night,
Like a monster mad with pain.

Silent as sleep is the wintry morn;
All spotless the snowdrifts lie;
Pillars of smoke from household fires
Mount straight to the cold, blue sky.
Yonder a "freight" creeps heavy, and slow,
Where the night train thundered by.

Wild was the night, and cold the morn;
It is noon, and the warm winds blow;
The eaves run streams, and under our feet
Is the slush of the melting snow.
Birds are singing, the air is like May,
And the wild geese northward go.

Poets, writing your odes to spring-
Your poems of stanzas ten-
Haste to finish, for moods of March
Are changeful as moods of men.

I tried it once, but the wind veered North,
And the ink froze on the pen.

-Ellen P. Allerton.

THE WANDERER.

I know not whence I came,

I know not whither I go;

Only a sigh of pain

And a wanderer's life I know.

I long for rest always,

I long for quiet alone;
Into a vale of rest

My pathway has never gone.

I fear to raise my voice,

I speak to hear but a sigh;
Ever I wander alone,

And ask myself bitterly why.

-James A. Wickersham.

THE BOATMAN'S SONG.

Come now, my love, the moon is on the lake
And on the waters is my light canoe;

Come with me, love, and gladsome oars shall make
A music on the parting wave for you.

Come o'er the waters deep and dark and blue; Come where the lilies in the marge have sprung, Come with me, love, for oh, my love is true. This is the song that on the lake was sung,-The boatman sang it over when his heart was young. -A. A. Whitman, in Twasinta.

LULLABY.

Out of the dark into the light,

Into day-dawn from the night;
Down from a perilous height-
Baby dear,

Do not fear!

Strange is the wind and the tide,
The heavens eternally wide;

Less fathomed, this life at my side
Mother's near,

Do not fear!

Your eyes look steadfast at me,
Something unseen seem to see,—
Thought of a bird or a bee—
Hark and hear,

Do not fear!

Love it was beckoned to you

Over the hills, through the blue
Shadows that shut God from view-