“Below the palms I buried her Whose bale star I had been. And since, by this bleak coast of snows, I sorrow for my sin. “There was no other of our kind That had her heavenly face. On a far Day, by a far Sea, I trust to know her grace.” _Smart Set_ _George Sterling_ EROS TURANNOS She fears him, and will always ask What fated her to choose him; She meets in his engaging mask All reasons to refuse him; But what she meets and what she fears Are less than are the downward years, Drawn slowly to the foamless weirs Of age, were she to lose him. Between a blurred sagacity That once had power to sound him, And Love, that will not let him be The seeker that she found him, Her pride assuages her, almost, As if it were alone the cost. He sees that he will not be lost, And waits, and looks around him. A sense of ocean and old trees Envelops and allures him; Tradition, touching all he sees Beguiles and reassures him; And all her doubts of what he says Are dimmed with what she knows of days, Till even prejudice delays, And fades--and she secures him. The falling leaf inaugurates The reign of her confusion; The pounding wave reverberates The crash of her illusion; And home, where passion lived and died Becomes a place where she can hide,-- While all the town and harbor side Vibrate with her seclusion. We tell you, tapping on our brows, The story as it should be,-- As if the story of a house Were told, or ever could be; We’ll have no kindly veil between Her visions and those we have seen,-- As if we guessed what hers have been Or what they are, or would be. Meanwhile, we do no harm; for they That with a god have striven, Not hearing much of what we say, Take what the god has given; Though like waves breaking it may be, Or like a changed familiar tree, Or like a stairway to the sea, Where down the blind are driven. _Poetry: A Magazine of Verse_ _Edwin Arlington Robinson_ THE SHROUD Death, I say, my heart is bowed Unto thine,--O mother! This red gown will make a shroud Good as any other! (I, that would not wait to wear My own bridal things, In a dress dark as my hair Made my answerings. I, to-night, that till he came Could not, could not wait, In a gown as bright as flame Held for them the gate.) Death, I say, my heart is bowed Unto thine,--O mother! This red gown will make a shroud Good as any other! _The Forum_ _Edna St. Vincent Millay_ THE MOTHER