Think of the day when you, sleeping in your graves,
Shall be awakened by the thunder of your own voices
And by the strong, cool winds of your own music:
For in the fertile soil of the years

Your voices will blossom and become thunder,
Your music will become winds that purify and create.

SENTIMENTAL DIRGE

Sweetheart, what's the use of you—

When the night is blue,

And I'm sad with the whisper of the skies,

And I'm heavy and I'm weary

With my many lies?

There is no music around me

Not a sound

But the whisper of the skies:

I am bound

To my sadness with so slender, so thin ties

Oh, so thin, still you can't break them.
Sweetheart, what's the use of you? -

And within me, what then pains,

When it rains?

Ah, the drops fall on the wound

And it pains.

For my soul's a naked wound,
The rain-drops are salty tears.

Are they tears of some great giant
Who still fears,

Just like me,

For the morrows, for the things that passed away—

For the dead, dead yesterday?

Sweetheart, what's the use of you?—

When the laughters are too few;
When the trees will no more sing
For the wind;

When they wave their ghastly arms,
Naked arms,

In despair, and no one heeds;
And my soul is like the reeds
Stooping under the low wind
Hopelessly-like the reeds,
Broken, that shall rise no more
And sing softly as before-

For the wind has been too cruel

And too strong.

'Neath the snow, wet, lies the fuel:
And the flame -

Of my laughter, of all laughters,
Now is dying. Oh, for shame!——
All you promised that first day!
What'll you do for me, now, say,
What'll you do for me?

What's the use

Of you, sweetheart, what's the use?

Emanuel Carnevali

Of your swift movement through the crowd;

Some similarity of up-flung brow

That lifts me with the thrill of mountains;

Some glance of eyes, like yours,

That whisper phraseless things.

Since I have loved you

Every man I pass

Goes by me with some hint of you. :

Since I have loved you

Are you all men?

And has love made

SONGS

SONGS OF THE DUST

Sorrow can wait,

FOLDED POWER

For there is magic in the calm estate

Of grief; lo, where the dust complies
Wisdom lies.

Sorrow can rest,

Indifferent, with her head upon her breast;

Idle and hushed, guarded from fears;
Content with tears.

Sorrow can bide,

With sealed lids and hands unoccupied.

Sorrow can fold her latent might,

Dwelling with night.

But Sorrow will rise

From her dream of sombre and hushed eternities.

Lifting a Child, she will softly move

With a mother's love.

She will softly rise.

Her embrace the dying will recognize,

Lifting them gently through strange delight

To a clearer light.

THE MOULD

No doubt this active will,

So bravely steeped in sun,