laughter and strife and joy and care,
"You have honour with your peace; and still you keep
"Fullness of life and of felicity.
"You have seen the Grail. What need you of grey hair?
"There are those who daily die,
"Who have long out lived their welcome in the world,
"Who are old and sad and tired and fain to cease
"From the crowded earth, and the hours in tumult whirled,
"Urgent and vain. You are not such as these
"Who have striven for laurels, and never knew the shade
"Upon their brows, who would persuade the rose,
"And never have come near it; till the head
"Bows and the heart breaks, and the spirit knows
"Only its failure, dim and featureless,—
"Its weariness of all things dreamed and done,
"When love and grief alike seem emptiness
"And fame and man's unrecognition one."

The full tide took you. You went out with the sun,
Not in the cringing ebb, not in the grey
And tremulous twilight, when each lonely one
To its last loneliness must creep away.
Your genius has won its rich repose,
Full laurelled, wearing still the unfaded rose.
And as those who bid good-bye at snowdrop time
Bear with them broken promises of Spring,
So you in triumph,—in the glory men had in you,
In Love's full worshipping,—
High summer thoughts, untouched of Winter's rime,
Went forth with honour, having fulfilled your Spring.
The hands that built you felt you flower from her prayer,
True to her vision true;
Fearless and fine, shaped from her fashioning;
Hands empty now, and yet not all unfilled,
Having built and fired the generous heart and brain,
Of the man you were; whose fervent spirit willed
You to the service and healing and help of men.

These things are hers, not to be lost nor changed
With changes of death; for though the body die
The golden deed is stamped eternally
With the head of God. The new and alien years
Leave it still bright, unaltered, unestranged.
Almost too proud, and too profound for tears
Is the high memory that the desolate heart
Shrines and is dumb, yet may for ever keep
Unforbidden, the imperishable part,
And what Love held, awake, he holds, asleep.

THE CLOUDBERRY.

Give me no coil of dæmon flowers—
Pale Messalines that faint and brood
Through the spent secret twilight hours
On their strange feasts of blood.

Give me wild things of moss and peat—
The gipsy flower that bravely goes,
The heather's little hard, brown feet,
And the black eyes of sloes.

But most of all the cloudberry
That offers in her clean, white cup
The melting snows—the cloudberry!
Where the great winds go up

To the hushed peak whose shadow fills
The air with silence calm and wide—
She lives, the Dian of the hills,
And the streams course beside.

TO ——

Between two common days this day was hung
When Love went to the ending that was his;
His seamless robe was rent, his brow was wrung,
He took at last the sponge's bitter kiss.

A simple day the dawn had watched unfold
Before the night had borne the death of love;
You took the bread I blessed, and love was sold
Upon your lips, and paid the price thereof.

I changed then, as when soul from body slips,
And casts its passion and its pain aside;
I pledged you with most spiritual lips,
And gave you hands that you had crucified.
You who betrayed, kissed, crucified, forgot,
You walked with Christ, poor fool, and knew it not!

FOR FASTING DAYS.

Are you my songs, importunate of praise?
Be still, remember for your comforting
That sweeter birds have had less leave to sing
Before men piped them from their lonely ways.

Greener leaves than yours are lost in every spring
Rubies far redder thrust their eager rays
Into the blindfold dark for many days
Before men chose them for a finger-ring.

Sing as you dare, not as men choose, receive not
The passing fashion's prize, for dole or due—
Men's summer-sweet unrecognition—grieve not:
Oh, stoop not to them! Better far that you
Should go unsung than sing as you believe not,
Should go uncrowned than to yourselves untrue.

THE FATHER.

The evening found us whom the day had fled,
Once more in bitter anger, you and I,
Over some small, some foolish, trivial thing
Our anger would not decently let die.
But dragged between us, shamed and shivering,
Until each other's taunts we scarcely heard,
Until we lost the sense of all we said,
And knew not who first spoke the fatal word.
It seemed that even every kiss we wrung
We killed at birth with shuddering and hate,
As if we feared a thing too passionate.
However close we clung
One hour, the next hour found us separate,
Estranged, and Love most bitter on our tongue.
To-night we quarrelled over one small head,
Our fruit of last year's maying, the white bud
Blown from our stormy kisses and the dead
First rapture of our wild, estranging blood.
You clutched him: there was panther in your eyes,
We breathed like beasts in thickets; on the wall
Our shadows swelled as in huge tyrannies,
The room grew dark with anger, yet through all
The shame and hurt and pity of it you were
Still strangely and imperishably dear,
As one who loves the wild day none the less
That turns to naught the lilac's miracle,
Breaking the unrecapturable spell
Of the first may-tree, magic and mystery
Utterly scattering of earth and sky.
Making even the rose's loveliness
A thing for pain to be remembered by.

I said: "My son shall wear his father's sword."
You said: "Shall hands once blossoms at my breast
Be stained with blood?" I answered with a word
More bitter, and your own, the bitterest,
Stung me to sullen anger, and I said:
"My son shall be no coward of his line
Because his mother choose"; you turned your head,
And your eyes grew implacable on mine.
And like a trodden snake you turned to meet
The foe with sudden hissing ... then you smiled
And broke our life in pieces at my feet,
"Your child?" you said. "Your child?" ...

ANDROMEDA UNFETTERED.

ANDROMEDA (the spirit of woman).

PERSEUS (the new spirit of man).

CHORUS (1) Women who desire the old thrall.
                 (2) Women who crave the new freedom.

The following poem is not a study of the economic struggle of women, but of the deep-rooted antagonism of spirit which constitutes the eternal sex-problem.

ANDROMEDA.

Chained to the years by the measureless wrong of man,
Here I hang, here I suffer, here I cry,
Since the light sprang forth from the dark, and the day began;
Since the sky was sundered and saved from the sea,
And the mouth of the beast was warm on the breast of the sod,
And the birds' feet glittered like rings on the blossoming tree,
And the rivers ran silver with scales, and the earth was thronged
With creatures lovely and wild and sane and