Yes; your up-dated modern page - All flower-fresh, as it appears - Can claim a time-tried lineage,

That reaches backward fifty years (Which, if but short for sleepy squires, Is much in magazines' careers).

- Here, on your cover, never tires The sower, reaper, thresher, while As through the seasons of our sires

Each wills to work in ancient style With seedlip, sickle, share and flail, Though modes have since moved many a mile!

The steel-roped plough now rips the vale, With cog and tooth the sheaves are won, Wired wheels drum out the wheat like hail;

But if we ask, what has been done To unify the mortal lot Since your bright leaves first saw the sun,

Beyond mechanic furtherance--what Advance can rightness, candour, claim?

Truth bends abashed, and answers not.

Despite your volumes' gentle aim To straighten visions wry and wrong, Events jar onward much the same!

- Had custom tended to prolong, As on your golden page engrained, Old processes of blade and p.r.o.ng,

And best invention been retained For high crusades to lessen tears Throughout the race, the world had gained! . . .

But too much, this, for fifty years.

THE SATIN SHOES

"If ever I walk to church to wed, As other maidens use, And face the gathered eyes," she said, "I'll go in satin shoes!"

She was as fair as early day Shining on meads unmown, And her sweet syllables seemed to play Like flute-notes softly blown.

The time arrived when it was meet That she should be a bride; The satin shoes were on her feet, Her father was at her side.

They stood within the dairy door, And gazed across the green; The church loomed on the distant moor, But rain was thick between.

"The gra.s.s-path hardly can be stepped, The lane is like a pool!" - Her dream is shown to be inept, Her wish they overrule.

"To go forth shod in satin soft A coach would be required!"

For thickest boots the shoes were doffed - Those shoes her soul desired . . .

All day the bride, as overborne, Was seen to brood apart, And that the shoes had not been worn Sat heavy on her heart.

From her wrecked dream, as months flew on, Her thought seemed not to range.

What ails the wife?" they said anon, "That she should be so strange?" . . .

Ah--what coach comes with furtive glide - A coach of closed-up kind?

It comes to fetch the last year's bride, Who wanders in her mind.

She strove with them, and fearfully ran Stairward with one low scream: "Nay--coax her," said the madhouse man, "With some old household theme."

"If you will go, dear, you must fain Put on those shoes--the pair Meant for your marriage, which the rain Forbade you then to wear."

She clapped her hands, flushed joyous hues; "O yes--I'll up and ride If I am to wear my satin shoes And be a proper bride!"

Out then her little foot held she, As to depart with speed; The madhouse man smiled pleasantly To see the wile succeed.

She turned to him when all was done, And gave him her thin hand, Exclaiming like an enraptured one, "This time it will be grand!"

She mounted with a face elate, Shut was the carriage door; They drove her to the madhouse gate, And she was seen no more . . .

Yet she was fair as early day Shining on meads unmown, And her sweet syllables seemed to play Like flute-notes softly blown.

EXEUNT OMNES

I

Everybody else, then, going, And I still left where the fair was? . . .

Much have I seen of neighbour loungers Making a l.u.s.ty showing, Each now past all knowing.

II

There is an air of blankness In the street and the littered s.p.a.ces; Thoroughfare, steeple, bridge and highway Wizen themselves to lankness; Kennels dribble dankness.

III

Folk all fade. And whither, As I wait alone where the fair was?

Into the clammy and numbing night-fog Whence they entered hither.

Soon do I follow thither!

June 2, 1913.

A POET

Attentive eyes, fantastic heed, a.s.sessing minds, he does not need, Nor urgent writs to sup or dine, Nor pledges in the roseate wine.

For loud acclaim he does not care By the august or rich or fair, Nor for smart pilgrims from afar, Curious on where his hauntings are.

But soon or later, when you hear That he has doffed this wrinkled gear, Some evening, at the first star-ray, Come to his graveside, pause and say: