In the fair picture of my life’s estate Which long ago my yearning fancy drew From hints of poets, prophets, lords of fate, What place is there, belovèd one, for you? How in this edifice of the soaring dome, Noble, harmonious, lifted towards the stars, Shall I carve forth a niche to be the home Of you and of my love that round you wars? Ah, folly his, who builds him such a house Too early, by impatient visions led, Ere he can know what blood shall stain his brows, And from what troubled streams his heart is fed. Now must he labor, in late night, alone To wreck,--and then rebuild it, stone by stone. _The Forum_ _Arthur Davison Ficke_ ROMANCE The last farewells were said, friends hurried ashore,-- The screw threshed foam, and jarred; the pier slid by; Hands went to ears to still the siren’s roar, Handkerchiefs waved, and there was call and cry; Over it all, austere and pure and high, Glittering snow and gold, the towers looked down,-- Serene and cold, regardless of the town. The wind blew north; and gravely on it came The trolling of the Metropolitan bells, First the four chimes, softly as puffs of flame, Then the deep five ... Slow, gentle gleaming swells Came glancing in the sun, with ocean smells, Up from the harbor and the further sea; Over the stern poised white gulls, giddily. Over the stern they poised and dipped and glanced, Now dull in shade, now shining in bright sun, And one youth watched them as they whirled and danced, And noticed how they circled, one by one; To have those wings, that freedom,--God, what fun!-- And watching them he felt youth in him, strong, Wings in his blood, and in his heart a song. Autumn! Already now the keen wind nipped, The skies arched cold bright blue, the leaves were turning; Whitely over the waves the cold squalls whipped; Scarlet and pale, the maple trees were burning, Tossing in gusts, and whirling and returning, On Staten Island, wonderfully afire; In bacchic song they flamed, with mad desire. Autumn! bringing to old adventures death, Sadness at all things past, things passing still, Touching all earth with strange and mystic breath, Veiling all earth in fire ere winter kill; Even this youth felt now his deep heart fill With a grey tide of mystery and sadness, Poignant sorrow for all past hours of gladness.... Those times--would others come as keen as they? Was life to come as living as life past?-- Ah, he was youth, life could not say him nay,-- The blood sang swift in him, doubt could not last; Let all life dead beneath his feet be cast And he would trample it, divinely singing: Life lay before, more rapturous music bringing!