My Lord Wind sings.

His voice is a harp, a harp of a thousand strings;

His voice is a harp, and he rides on swift and terrible wings.

And the pine-trees mutter threats to their parent hills, The ragged scrub-oaks writhe and clash at fierce demoniac wills.

And the young oak bends to the hiss of his stinging flails, While the old oak breaks and the cowering pine-tree wails.

And a plaintive echo stirs through the fallen leaves,

Like a child-lorn mother's breast the grassy hill-side heaves.

And the word is a mad crescendo of sobs and sighs.

Then out in the far somewhere the voice-of my Lord Wind

dies.

FLOOD

Steeds

Giant stallions that froth and champ,

Yellow plunging racers

Leaping full at the barrier,

Leaping full at the barrier!

The thick masonry trembles, crumbles;
They surmount it

They rush on.

A NORTHERN LIGHTS

The moon has gone to her bed tonight,
And all over the sky

She has hung out her garments of light
To dry.

I think I saw her, at the day's break,

A morning or so ago,

Washing them, down by the end of the lake,

Bending quite low,

So tired she was, and pale.

And now each shimmering veil

Sea-greens and sapphires

Jeweled with orange fires

Floats from the star she has pinned it to.

THE SOWING

Spring-Fort Sheridan

Placid breezes sauntering

Over a lake of glass,

Kissing the pouting elm-buds,

Patting the new grass;

Turquoise overhead,

Swimming May skies

("Trench-knives are top-hole

For gouging out their eyes!")

Great bees, clover-laden,
Solemnly drone past;
All the fresh world shouts

Of spring come at last.
Bobolinks, meadowlarks

Bursting with May

("If you can't pull the bayonet out,

Shoot the body away!")

J. Van Alstyne Weaver, Jr.

WE WHO HAVE LOST

They were pursuing us along the road.

My arm was gone, and I was weak from loss of blood.
Presently a steel splinter ripped my belly;

I fell into the slimy ditch, and struggled, struggled!

Soon an officer beneath me spoke, through half a mouth: "Be quiet, little brother, and I will show you how to lie at ease."

Now we are at rest.

The heavy tread of the victors shakes the earth;

The loose dirt falls from the side of the ditch,
Little by little.

Howard Unger

From olden hallways

He led to beauty's ample rooms

Out to her rain-drenched garden's frond,

Out to her suns . . . beyond

Ah! did we call his art a whim,
Before we woke to him?

High above war

His music, rising past the stars,
Is heard at heaven's door.
Heaven opens to the soul of song,

And unto art that never ends
The soul of song ascends.

beyond.

Agnes Lee