By which man's works ign.o.ble seem, Unbeautiful; And grandeur, but the ruined dream Of some proud queen, crowned with a skull.

A way past-peopled, dark and old, That stretches far-- Its only real thing, the cold Vague light of sleep's one fitful star.

ENCOURAGEMENT.

To help our tired hope to toil, Lo! have we not the council here Of trees, that to all hope appear As sermons of the soil?

To help our flagging faith to rise, Lo! have we not the high advice Of stars, that for all faith suffice As gospels of the skies?

Sustain us, Lord! and help us climb, With hope and faith made strong and great, The rock-rough pathway of our fate, The care-dark way of time!

QUATRAINS.

PENURY.

Above his misered embers, gnarled and gray, With toil-twitched limbs he bends; around his hut, Want, like a hobbling hag, goes night and day, Scolding at windows and at doors tight-shut.

STRATEGY.

Craft's silent sister and the daughter deep Of Contemplation, she, who spreads below A hostile tent soft comfort for her foe, With eyes of Jael watching till he sleep.

TEMPEST.

With helms of lightning, glittering in the skies, On steeds of thunder, cloudy form on form, Terrific beauty in their hair and eyes, Behold the wild Valkyries of the storm.

THE LOCUST BLOSSOM.

The spirit Spring, in rainy raiment, met The spirit Summer for a moonlit hour: Sweet from their greeting kisses, warm and wet, Earth shaped the fragrant purity of this flower.

MELANCHOLY.

With shadowy immortelles of memory About her brow, she sits with eyes that look Upon the stream of Lethe wearily, In hesitant hands Death's partly-opened book.

CONTENT.

Among the meadows of Life's sad unease-- In labor still renewing her soul's youth-- With trust, for patience, and with love, for peace, Singing she goes with the calm face of Ruth.

LIFE AND DEATH.

Of our own selves G.o.d makes a gla.s.s, wherein Two shadows image them as might a breath: And one is Life, whose other name is Sin; And one is Love, whose other name is Death.

SORROW.

Death takes her hand and leads her through the waste Of her own soul, wherein she hears the voice Of lost Love's tears, and, famishing, can but taste The dead-sea fruit of Life's remembered joys.

A LAST WORD.

Not for thyself, but for the sake of Song, Strive to succeed as others have, who gave Their lives unto her; shaping sure and strong Her lovely limbs that made them G.o.d and slave.

Not for thyself, but for the sake of Art, Strive to advance beyond the others' best; Winning a deeper secret from her heart To hang it moonlike 'mid the starry rest.

_For permission to reprint a number of the poems included in this volume, thanks are due to The Chap-Book, Cosmopolitan, Lippincott's, Century, New England, Atlantic, and Harper's._