Helen of Troy thy face was fair, And fair thy radiant golden hair, Thy form, in every molded part, But not thy false and fickle heart, Helen of Troy.

Betrayed by Aphrodite's wiles, Oenone's life lost all its smiles, And tasted sorrow to the lees, When Paris sailed for sunset seas, Where reigned the queen of all the isles.

Thy beauty, poignant as a dart, Drave G.o.d-like men to wild despair, And lit the skies with lurid glare But oh, thy false and fickle heart, Helen of Troy!

COW BELLS

Oh, the distant m.u.f.fled tinkling Of the cow bells in the vale, When the dawning stars are twinkling And the silent dews are sprinkling Fresh the daisies in the dale.

How they flood the soul with music Sad as song of nightingale-- Tinkling melodies of magic, Vague, uncertain, longing, tragic,-- Just the cow bells in the vale!

HOLLYHOCKS

It may not be quite orthodox To say so in society, And yet I think the hollyhocks, Of every known variety, That bloom and bless the humble home, Are sisters sweet of charity,-- Fair nuns that wear a beauteous cowl,-- G.o.d's priestesses unto the soul That lives in righteous poverty.

BURNS

_Acrostic_

Warm-heated bard, in thee I find Infinite soul, irradiant mind; Long-suffering worth and love refined Lent thee their ken.

In Robert Burns the heart enshrined E'en mice and men.

ROBERT LOVEMAN

He knows Will Shakespeare's human heart And feels his G.o.dlike brain; And sings his soul a kindred part In rondeau and quatrain.

BOOKS

'Tis early morn and on the green The children are at play; The sunlight falls in sparkling sheen, Their hearts are blithe and gay: A shadow flits across the scene-- The hour has come that sadness brings, The master rings, the master rings, 'Tis books!

'Tis late at eve, and o'er the green The weary toilers pa.s.s; The shadows fall, the sky's serene, And dew is on the gra.s.s: A light breaks in upon the scene-- The hour has come that gladness brings, The Master rings, the Master rings, 'Tis books!

SONGS UNSUNG

Unvoic-ed songs that always die On the strings of the harp that gives them birth, The flutter of hope, a breath, a sigh, The song nor asks nor gives a why-- The poet's song he deems most worth.

The silent music of the heart is sweet To listen to. The slow and measured beat Of the imprisoned soul that finds a voice In melodious sound oft may rejoice Us much; but that which sometimes plays on strings Too fine to sympathize with words e'er sings The sweetest melodies, though never heard Except by ear of him whose soul is stirred.

THE RAINBOW'S END

In childhood's fairy hour I watched a bow The t.i.tian Sun had painted in the skies, And marveled at its wondrous hues and dyes And held my breath in silence at its glow; "The hand of G.o.d," I cried, "Divine, I know!"

And at the thought the tears stood in my eyes.

But when I heard that awful pack of lies About the pot of gold, I said, "'S that so!"

LINEN AND LACE

DOWN LOVER'S LANE

Down Lover's Lane the creamy spray Of elder blooms enchants the way, And dappled shadows sport and play, Down Lover's Lane!

Here happy redbirds glint and gloom, The wildrose sheds a sweet perfume, But death oft lurks in leaf and bloom, Down Lover's Lane!

BENEATH THE CHESTNUT TREE

Long years ago in childhood's hour.

Beneath an old Beech Tree, A sweeter and a daintier flower Than ever graced a lea, Unfolded all its beauteous bloom And shed its rich and rare perfume Alone, alone for me.

The dewdrop sparkling on the rose Is fresh and fair to see; I love the lily when it blows And rocks the cradled bee; But fairer than the diamond dew Or lily, was the flower that grew Beneath the old Beech Tree.