Sleep was heavy on our eyelids when a lone star followed sunset, But we missed the pale young stranger, none knew whither he had gone-- Then, from where the dead are lying, with the nightwind’s tender sighing Rose and fell a last low cadence of the voice we heard at dawn: “Weary reapers, Early sleepers-- Brief the glow that drifts across them from the waning August moon: These that rest beyond its gleaming Lie unvexed of drift or dreaming, And the fields with harvest teeming have forgot them all too soon!” _Boston Transcript_ _Ruth Guthrie Harding_ BALLADE OF A DEAD LADY All old fair things are in their places, I count them over, and miss but one; The April flowers are running races, The green world stretches its arms to the sun; The nuptial dance of the days is begun-- The same young stars in the same old skies; And all that was lost again is won-- But where have they hidden those great eyes? All have come back--dogwood and daisies-- All things ripple and riot and run; Swallow and swallow in aery mazes, A fairy frolic of fire and fun; The same old enchanted web is spun, With diamond dews for the same old flies; Yet all is new, spite of Solomon-- But where have they hidden those great eyes? Lovely as love are the new-born faces-- God knows they are fair to look upon; And my heart goes out to the young embraces, To the flight of the young to the young; But, Time, what is it that thou hast done? For my heart ’mid all the blossom cries: “Roses are many, the Rose is gone-- Ah! where have they hidden those great eyes?” ENVOI Prince, I bring you my April praises, But O! on my heart a shadow lies; For a face I see not at all my gaze is-- Ah! where have they hidden those great eyes? _Puck_ _Richard Le Gallienne_ AN EPITAPH Perhaps it doesn’t matter that you died, Life is a _bal masqué_ which you saw through. You never told on Life--you had your pride; But Life has told on you. _The Trend_ _Walter Conrad Arensberg_ WAR Fools, fools, fools, Your blood is hot to-day. It cools When you are clay. It joins the very clod Wherein you look at God, Wherein at last you see The living God, The loving God, Which was your enemy. _The Nation_ _Witter Bynner_ FRANCE Half artist and half anchorite, Part siren and part Socrates, Her face--alluring and yet recondite-- Smiled through her salons and academies. Lightly she wore her double mask, Till sudden, at war’s kindling spark, Her inmost self, in shining mail and casque, Blazed to the world her single soul-- Jeanne d’Arc!