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They have come together
In a secret place

With unbowed heads.


This hidden lake

Is a sapphire cup—
An offering clearer than wine,
Colder than tears.
The mountains hold it toward the sky

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Give me the long, straight road before me,
A clear, cold day with a nipping air,
Tall, bare trees to run on beside-me,
A heart that is light and free from care.
Then let me go!—I care not whither
My feet may lead, for my spirit shall be
Free as the brook that flows to the river,

Free as the river that flows to the sea.
Olive Run

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The sea hides its curious heart • Under a bridal robe of mother-o'-pearl, Mother-o'-pearl flushed with rose, Waiting.

Against a turquoise sky
The mountains kneel, mauve-gray
In the gray-pink sand
Of the curving shore,


The moon, pale and wan,
Hangs a flat design in silver
On the expectant sky,

The palm trees, in parallel rows
Along the Plaza, clasp
Nervous, wavering fingers,

Riding on a many-fluted shell
Held on the backs of jade tritons,
Comes Venus Anadyomene, straight and slim,
Combing the night curls -
From her ruddy hair,
Blown by the four winds
To the meeting with her lover.

Then, he comes—the young Sun,
Glorious in amazing strength and splendor,
Striding across the mountains
To pave a path of brazen metal
For the whiteness of her feet,
The two little feet of his bride.
He surrounds, covers, hides her
In golden madness.

The sea roughens,
Sending her waves with the morning breeze
Against the shore.

It is day!


When she was alive
She moved like a frail ghost,
The spirit of a wraith.
Her chiffons trailed about her
Like spirals of smoke.
The wail in her voice was gray and pining
Like the sea after twilight.

She died and was buried.
Now, she has returned—a woman
Among us. \

She passed down the street
Wrapped in a Spanish shawl,
Flaming with hybiscus

And amber roses:
The silk fringe caught in a small, green bush;
She stooped and swayed,
With long pointed fingers disengaged
The silk fringe of the shawl.

I closed my eyes,
So poignant was the grace
Of her swaying and stooping.
When I opened them again,
She had gone.
Up and down the street
I looked—
She had disappeared

But the small green bush,
Where her long, pointed fingers
Disengaged the silk fringe
Of the shawl,
Was covered with vermilion flowers
Like her mouth— o
A flare of color
In the sun.

Pauline B. Barrington


There I know blue, blue water,
And a waving line of land,

With pines that grow in a wind-swept row
As set by a dreamer's hand;

And where the winds will, in hollow or hill,
Sand and sand and sand.

Sand as soft as a snowfall—
Drifting, eddying, whirled—

Sweeping into the valleys,
Over the grasses swirled,

And billowing up to the tree-tops
That look out on the world.

Sand of romantic patterns
New for each passer fleet.

Here a flower has lain, there the leaf-like chain
That was marked by a sea-gull's feet;

And the pebbled trace as of scalloped lace
Where the waves and the shore-line meet.

Gleaming sands in the morning
When the little waves run white,

While gay wings fan the shining span
And float a song in flight;

And the lupine blue spreads a heaven new
Where the stars might rest till night.

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