Volume Iii Part 40 (1/2)

And so when autumn winds blow late, And whirl the chilly wave, He bows before the common fate, And drops beside his grave.

None ever owed him thanks or said ”A gift of gracious heaven.”

Down in the mire he droops his head; Forgotten, not forgiven.

Smile on, brave weed! let none inquire What made or bade thee rise: Toss thy tough fingers high and higher To flout the drenching skies.

Let others toil for others' good, And miss or mar their own; Thou hast brave health and fort.i.tude To live and die alone!

Arthur Christopher Benson [1862-1925]

MOLY

The root is hard to loose From hold of earth by mortals; but G.o.d's power Can all things do. 'Tis black, but bears a flower As white as milk.

--Chapman's Homer

Traveler, pluck a stem of moly, If thou touch at Circe's isle,-- Hermes' moly, growing solely To undo enchanter's wile!

When she proffers thee her chalice,-- Wine and spices mixed with malice,-- When she smites thee with her staff, To transform thee, do thou laugh!

Safe thou art if thou but bear The least leaf of moly rare.

Close it grows beside her portal, Springing from a stock immortal,-- Yes! and often has the Witch Sought to tear it from its niche; But to thwart her cruel will The wise G.o.d renews it still.

Though it grows in soil perverse, Heaven hath been its jealous nurse, And a flower of snowy mark Springs from root and sheathing dark; Kingly safeguard, only herb That can brutish pa.s.sion curb!

Some do think its name should be s.h.i.+eld-Heart, White Integrity.

Traveler, pluck a stem of moly, If thou touch at Circe's isle,-- Hermes' moly, growing solely To undo enchanter's wile!

Edith M. Thomas [1854-1925]

THE MORNING-GLORY

Was it worth while to paint so fair Thy every leaf--to vein with faultless art Each petal, taking the boon light and air Of summer so to heart?

To bring thy beauty unto perfect flower, Then, like a pa.s.sing fragrance or a smile, Vanish away, beyond recovery's power-- Was it, frail bloom, worth while?

Thy silence answers: ”Life was mine!

And I, who pa.s.s without regret or grief, Have cared the more to make my moment fine, Because it was so brief.

”In its first radiance I have seen The sun!--why tarry then till comes the night?

I go my way, content that I have been Part of the morning light!”

Florence Earle Coates [1850-1927]

THE MOUNTAIN HEART'S-EASE