My only love is always near,
In country or in town;

I see her twinkling feet, I hear
The whisper of her gown.

She foots it ever fair and young;
Her locks are tied in haste,
And one is o'er her shoulder flung,
And hangs below her waist.

She ran before me in the meads;

And down the world-worn track She leads me on; but while she leads, She never gazes back.

And yet her voice is in my dreams
To witch me more and more.
That wooing voice! Ah me, it seems
Less near me than of yore.

Lightly I sped when hope was high,

And youth beguiled the chase:

Oh, what's the way to Arcady?
The spring is rustling in the tree
The tree the wind is blowing through-
It sets the blossoms flickering white.
I knew not skies could burn so blue,
Nor any breezes blow so light.
They blow an old-time way for me,
Across the world to Arcady.

Oh, what's the way to Arcady?
Sir Poet, with the rusty coat,
Quit mocking of the song-bird's note.
How have you heart for any tune,
You with the wayworn russet shoon ?
Your scrip, a-swinging by your side,
Gapes with a gaunt mouth hungry-wide:
I'll brim it well with pieces red,
If you will tell the way to tread.

Oh, I am bound for Arcady,
And if you but keep pace with me,
You tread the way to Arcady.

And whereaway lies Arcady?
And how long yet may the journey be?

Ah, that (quoth he) I do not know-
Across the clover and the snow-
Across the frosts, across the flowers
Through summer seconds and winter hours.
I've trod the way my whole life long,

And know not now where it may
My guide is but the stir to song,
That tells me I cannot go wrong,
Or clear or dark the pathway be
Upon the road to Arcady.

be;

But how shall I do who cannot sing?

--

I was wont to sing, once on a time There is never an echo now to ring Remembrance back to the trick of rhyme.

'Tis strange you cannot sing (quoth he); The folk all sing in Arcady.

But how may he find Arcady
Who hath nor youth nor melody?

What! know you not, old man (quoth he),

Your hair is white, your face is wise,
That Love must kiss that mortal's eyes
Who hopes to see fair Arcady?
No gold can buy you entrance there ;
But beggared Love may go all bare –
No wisdom won with weariness;
But Love goes in with Folly's dress

No fame that wit could ever win; But only Love may lead Love in To Arcady, to Arcady.

351

Ah, no, not lonely do I fare;

My true companion's Memory.
With Love he fills the Springtime air;
With Love he clothes the Winter tree.
Oh, past this poor horizon's bound

My song goes straight to one who stands

Her face all gladdening at the sound-
To lead me to the spring-green lands,
To wander with enlacing hands.
The songs within my breast that stir
Are all of her, are all of her.

My maid is dead long years (quoth he):
She waits for me in Arcady.

Oh, yon's the way to Arcady,
To Arcady, to Arcady,

Oh,

yon

's the way to Arcady, Where all the leaves are merry!

AUSTIN DOBSON.

THE PARADOX OF TIME.

TIME goes, you say? Ah, no! Alas, Time stays, we go;

Or else, were this not so, What need to chain the hours, For youth were always ours?

Time goes, you say?—ah, no!

ELIZABETH CAVAZZA.

[U. S. A.]

DERELICT.

SHE wanders up and down the main
Without a master, nowhere bound,
The currents turn her round and
round;

Her track is like a tangled skein;
And never helmsman by his chart

So strange a way as hers may steer
In any waters far or near,
To enter port or to depart.

The waters clamor at her sides,

The winds cry through her cordage torn,

The last sail hangs, to tatters worn; Upon the waves the vessel rides This way or that, as winds may shift, In ghastly dance when airs blow balm, Or held in a lethargic calm, Or fury-hunted, wild, adrift.

When south winds blow, does she recall

Spices and golden fruits in store?

Or north winds-nets off Labrador And icebergs' iridescent wall?

Or east the isles of Indian seas?

--

Or west -new ports and sails unfurled?

Her voyages all around the world To mock her with old memories ?

MAURICE THOMPSON.

[U. S. A.]

A FLIGHT SHOT.

WE were twin brothers, tall and hale,
Glad wanderers over hill and dale.

We stood within the twilight shade
Of pines that rimmed a Southern glade.
He said: "Let's settle, if we can,
Which of us is the stronger man.

"We'll try a flight shot, high and good, Across the green glade toward the wood."

And so we bent in sheer delight

Our old yew bows with all our might.

Our long keen shafts, drawn to the head, Were poised a moment ere they sped.

As we leaned back, a breath of air Mingled the brown locks of our hair.

We loosed. As one our bow-cords rang,
As one away our arrows sprang.

Away they sprang; the wind of June
Thrilled to their softly-whistled tune.

We watched their flight, and saw them strike

Deep in the ground slantwise alike,

So far away that they might pass
For two thin straws of broom-sedge grass!

Then arm in arm we doubting went To find whose shaft was farthest sent,

Each fearing in his loving heart
That brother's shaft had fallen short..

But who could tell by such a plan Which of us was the stronger man?

There at the margin of the wood,
Side by side our arrows stood,

Their red cock-feathers wing and wing,
Their amber nocks still quivering,

Their points deep-planted where they fell An inch apart and parallel !