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If he I love were on the sea,
My God, how I would pray to Thee!

And now I know that I should pray,
With urgent tears, to Thee on high,

That Thou would'st call Thy storm away
Lest other women's loved ones die;

And on my knees should supplicate
With all the strength that in me lies:

(For other women watch and wait
With anguish written in their eyes.)

Lord, show them pity evermore!

But I can neither weep nor pray, For oh, my dear is safe ashore,

And I go singing all the day.


Underneath the night sky, and out upon the heath, It makes a man feel lonesome, and scared at a breath. Maybe, in the open you're nearer up to God, But set my feet in well worn paths that other feet have trod/

Underneath the night sky the ghosts begin to creep— Ghosts that cry of evil things long laid to sleep, Little ghosts that whisper of a cold eternity. Oh, give me friends and fireside to warm my soul and me! Cecily Fryer


Crimson as ever skin pomegranate wore,
When timid love first entered in, Eleanore,

Were those soft, blushing cheeks of thine that flush no more— Alas!—since they no more are mine, Eleanore.

White as the gieaming seeds within the cloven core
Were thy soft hands, so fair to win, Eleanore,

Which now withhold their benison and blessing, nor
Reach out in love to anyone, Eleanore.

Gold as the gold upon the stem, or louis d'or—
Thy locks were like the glint of them, Eleanore.

Sharper and sweeter were the lips I hungered for
Than is the juicy fruit that drips, Eleanore.

Scarlet and rich, red as a rose, forevermore
I think of lips . . . another knows, Eleanore?

Ah, no! I'll not think that of thee. I set more store
Upon an unchanged memory, Eleanore.

Ripe was the scarlet fruit that fell. The branch that bore Must wait for winter snows. Ah, well, Eleanore,

Perhaps the spring will come again, but nevermore
The branch will bear what blossomed then, Eleanore.

That first, full love that ripened red, although we pour
Upon it all the tears we shed, Eleanore,

Will never grow again. Alas! All that is o'er,
With only grief that it should pass, Eleanore.

Crimson as ever fruit that grew and branches bore
Will be the love (not like we knew), Eleanore,

Which spring will yet bring forth for me; but that's no SCOre Whereon my heart can happy be, Eleanore.

Fair was the fruit I gathered first: now, as before,
That seems the best—and worst, Eleanore!
Dean B. Lyman, Jr.

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Love lasts like a lily,
Tender on Time's trail;
Breathing burning beauty,
Fragrant, fine, and frail. -
Solomon J. D. Fendell


I sit in the shade of a tree and sing
Unto this wee, mysterious thing
Upon my breast—my own, and yet
How could I more than I beget?
At the feather-touch of searching lips.
Of tiny, groping finger-tips,
I know the surge of something more,
Deeper within than lived before;
As though, when this was come to birth,
A largess, more of heaven than earth,
Enriched my spirit, making me
A part of all Infinity.

I am akin to this old tree,
Yet of a richer destiny:
Its shining leaves sing in the sun
As I unto my little one;
We share creation's leap and thrill,
Yet hold I something stranger still.
What is this flaming tenderness?
What summons me to this caress?
O Power that gave, make my love strong!
The sleeper stirs; again my song
Stills him to dreaming—dreams of what?—
Things I knew once and have forgot?

Akin to all these growing things

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My eager spirit sunward springs;

And deep I sink my roots, and deeper,

With each soft breath of the wee sleeper!
Flora Shufelt Rivola |


Out of the night I hear a voice,
Out of the sea a cry.

The swift, white arms of the reaching waves
Toss as we pass them by;

The foam hands grasp in the emptiness,
And sink in the black to die.

I lean to the night, I lean to the sea,
To the round on round of blue,

Where the barren stretch of the moon-laced waves
Divides the world in two;

There is no comfort in the dark,
I may not come to you.

Hortense Flexner

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