Part 26 (1/2)

Not a hand has lifted the latchet Since she went out of the door-- No footstep shall cross the threshold, Since she can come in no more.

There is rust upon locks and hinges, And mold and blight on the walls, And silence faints in the chambers, And darkness waits in the halls--

Waits as all things have waited Since she went, that day of spring, Borne in her pallid splendor To dwell in the Court of the King:

With lilies on brow and bosom, With robes of silken sheen, And her wonderful, frozen beauty, The lilies and silk between.

Red roses she left behind her, But they died long, long ago 'Twas the odorous ghost of a blossom That seemed through the dusk to glow.

The garments she left mock the shadows With hints of womanly grace, And her image swims in the mirror That was so used to her face.

The birds make insolent music Where the suns.h.i.+ne riots outside, And the winds are merry and wanton With the summer's pomp and pride.

But into this desolate mansion, Where Love has closed the door, Nor suns.h.i.+ne nor summer shall enter, Since she can come in no more.

L.C. MOULTON.

A Tropical Morning at Sea.

Sky in its lucent splendor lifted Higher than cloud can be; Air with no breath of earth to stain it, Pure on the perfect sea.

Crests that touch and tilt each other, Jostling as they comb; Delicate crash of tinkling water, Broken in pearling foam.

Plas.h.i.+ngs--or is it the pinewood's whispers, Babble of brooks unseen, Laughter of winds when they find the blossoms, Brus.h.i.+ng aside the green?

Waves that dip, and dash, and sparkle; Foam-wreaths slipping by, Soft as a snow of broken roses Afloat over mirrored sky.

Off to the east the steady sun-track Golden meshes fill Webs of fire, that lace and tangle, Never a moment still.

Liquid palms but clap together, Fountains, flower-like, grow-- Limpid bells on stems of silver-- Out of a slope of snow.

Sea-depths, blue as the blue of violets-- Blue as a summer sky, When you blink at its arch sprung over Where in the gra.s.s you lie.

Dimly an orange bit of rainbow Burns where the low west clears, Broken in air, like a pa.s.sionate promise Born of a moment's tears.

Thinned to amber, rimmed with silver, Clouds in the distance dwell, Clouds that are cool, for all their color, Pure as a rose-lipped sh.e.l.l.

Fleets of wool in the upper heavens Gossamer wings unfurl; Sailing so high they seem but sleeping Over yon bar of pearl.

What would the great world lose, I wonder-- Would it be missed or no-- If we stayed in the opal morning, Floating forever so?

Swung to sleep by the swaying water, Only to dream all day-- Blow, salt wind from the north upstarting, Scatter such dreams away!

E.R. SILL.

Memory.