Unto him who finds thee hateful,
Death, thou art inhuman pain;
But to me, who dying gain,
Life is but a task ungrateful.

Come, then, with my wish complying,

All unheard thy coming be,

Lest the sweet delight of dying

Bring life back again to me.

IV.

Glove of black in white hand bare,
And about her forehead pale
Wound a thin, transparent veil,
That doth not conceal her hair;
Sovereign attitude and air,
Cheek and neck alike displayed,
With coquettish charms arrayed,
Laughing eyes and fugitive; -
This is killing men that live,
'T is not mourning for the dead.

W

AFTERMATH

WHEN the Summer fields are mown, When the birds are fledged and flown, And the dry leaves strew the path; With the falling of the snow,

With the cawing of the crow,

Once again the fields we mow
And gather in the aftermath.

Not the sweet, new grass with flowers
Is this harvesting of ours;

Not the upland clover bloom;
But the rowen mixed with weeds,
Tangled tufts from marsh and meads,

Where the poppy drops its seeds

In the silence and the gloom.

BIRDS OF PASSAGE

FLIGHT THE FOURTH

CHARLES SUMNER

G

ARLANDS

upon his grave,

And flowers upon his hearse,

And to the tender heart and brave

The tribute of this verse.

His was the troubled life,
The conflict and the pain,

The grief, the bitterness of strife,
The honor without stain.

Like Winkelried, he took

Into his manly breast

The sheaf of hostile spears, and broke

A path for the oppressed.

Then from the fatal field

Upon a nation's heart

Borne like a warrior on his shield!

So should the brave depart.

Death takes us by surprise,
And stays our hurrying feet;