Of birds that sang last eve, and still shall sing
In dawns of morrows only joyful lays.
Or yet, if thou shouldst go
Not utterly unscathed of mortal woe—
Thy blackest hour be touched by memory's gold,
As is this flower's leaf. Then shalt thou hold
Ever a young heart in thee, ever as now
A look of quenchless youth beneath thy peerless brow.
II—ART
Following the sun, westward the march of power!
The Rose of Might blooms in our new-world mart:
But see, just bursting forth from bud to flower,—
A late, slow growth,—the fairer Rose of Art.
III—TO A SOUTHERN GIRL
Sweet rose that bloomed on the red field of war,
Think not too sadly of the dreadful Past!
Are not old foes new friends—not least, tho' last,
One whose far home lies 'neath yon Northern star?
IV—FOR A FAN
Each of us answers to a call;
Master or mistress have we all.
I belong to lovely Anne;
Dost thou not wish thou wert a fan?
Thus to be treasured, thus to be prest,
Pleasuring thus, and thus carest?
V—TO T. B. A.
IN ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF A BOOK OF PROSE
Your pretty book doth please me,
Of carks and cares doth ease me;
But don't forget, my boy,
