MOONRISE And who has seen the moon, who has not seen Littering the waves with her own superscription The great gold apples of night On the faces that drift below, Down the night-time, out of sight The ripeness of these apples of night Makes sickening the white Ghost-flux of faces that 'hie They ever should be. D. H. Lawrence SACRAMENT My body, dear, like bread I break For Love's sweet sake; My soul like wine I give Each day, that you may take, And taking, love and live. But when the altar empty lies Before my eyes, The veil in twain is rent For me alone the sacrifice Has been a sacrament. Pauline D. Partridge THE TREES The house is haunted by old trees. So close they stand, and still, No yellow sunlight seeps through their shingled leaves And drips down on the sill. Beech with the mist on his flanks, Pine whose old voice is a muffled bell, Gaunt, wan-bodied poplar That has a bitter smell, Tapping elm and oak-tree— They stoop and peer within They do nothing but peer and haunt through the windows And listen until their silence Makes a strangeness all around. Then suddenly they quiver and shake at the wind Their arms that are furrowed as river sands, And whisper "Did you see?" to one another There is no one understands. By night they creep close to the windows, And pick at the catches with their fingers— To see their own shadows thronging The quiet house of sleep. Yes, they look in at their own shadows Stealing up by the stair To the closed doors of the chambers And listening there. They watch how their shadows with pulseless fingers Noiselessly push and strain, And beat their breasts on the dark panels To open them, in vain; And how the thin moonlight trickles round them Creeping down by the banisters again. Eloise Robinson CRÉPUSCULE In all the lonely places and the hills By dusk comes down faint trumpeting; it fills Maxwell Struthers Burt THERE WAS A ROSE There was a rose that faded where it grew; Of the cold year that withered by the wall A rose, a bird, a sunset, and a weed, A blossom whose death sentence is its sky— These know not of. Behold, all things must die, AN OLD MAN'S WEARINESS I want to lie alone beside the sedges, The craft of the grey hunter. I have long avoided the grey hunter Death, |