Once more the cordage rattle. Airs of home!

Youth, love and roses blossom; the gaunt ward

Dislimns and disappears, and, opening out, Shows brooks and forests, and the blue beyond

Of mountains.

Small the pipe; but O! do thou, Peak-faced and suffering piper, blow therein The dirge of heroes dead; and to these sick, These dying, sound the triumph over death. Behold! each greatly breathes; each tastes a joy

Unknown before, in dying; for each knows A hero dies with him - though unfulfilled Yet conquering truly - and not dies in vain.

So is pain cheered, death comforted; the house

Of sorrows smiles to listen. Once again
O thou, Orpheus and Heracles, the bard
And the deliverer, touch the stops again!

WHO

HENRY JAMES

HO comes to-night? We ope the doors in vain.

Who comes? My bursting walls, can you

contain

The presences that now together throng Your narrow entry, as with flowers and

song,

As with the air of life, the breath of talk? Lo, how these fair immaculate women walk Behind their jocund maker; and we see Slighted De Mauves, and that far different

she,

Gressie, the trivial sphynx; and to our feast Daisy and Barb and Chancellor (she not least!)

With all their silken, all their airy kin,
Do like unbidden angels enter in.

But he, attended by these shining names,
Comes (best of all) himself - our welcome

James.

THE MIRROR SPEAKS

W

HERE the bells peal far at sea
Cunning fingers fashioned me.

There on palace walls I hung

While that Consuelo sung;

But I heard, though I listened well,
Never a note, never a trill,

Never a beat of the chiming bell.
There I hung and looked, and there
In my grey face, faces fair

Shone from under shining hair.
Well I saw the poising head,

But the lips moved and nothing said;
And when lights were in the hall,
Silent moved the dancers all.

So awhile I glowed, and then

Fell on dusty days and men;
Long I slumbered packed in straw,
Long I none but dealers saw;
Till before my silent eye

One that sees came passing by.

Now with an outlandish grace,
To the sparkling fire I face
In the blue room at Skerryvore;
Where I wait until the door
Open, and the Prince of Men,
Henry James, shall come again.

W

KATHARINE

E see you as we see a face
That trembles in a forest place

Upon the mirror of a pool
Forever quiet, clear and cool;
And in the wayward glass, appears
To hover between smiles and tears,
Elfin and human, airy and true,
And backed by the reflected blue.