there is, but faith to master it; loss may come, but hope is still victorious, death itself yielding to immortality.
The tide that ebbs by the moon flows back,
Faith builds on the ruins of sorrow,
The halcyon flutters in winter's track,
And night makes way for the morrow.
Now and again is struck a note of such perfect joyousness as this:—
For me the jasmine buds unfold
And silver daisies star the lea,
The crocus hoards the sunset gold,
And the wild rose breathes for me.
I feel the sap through the bough returning,
I share the skylark's transport fine,
I know the fountain's wayward yearning;
I love, and the world is mine!
One of the most delightful phases of Mrs. Coates's verse is her appreciation of nature. Her handling of the theme, in its myriad, ever-wonderful charm and change, emphasizes anew the fact that nature-poetry is not mere description of landscape in metrical form, but rather the expression of one or another of the countless vital relationships that exist between nature and the deep heart of man. For this one needs to be endowed with an intuitive sympathy to supplement observation, and with culture of
