ALICE BROWN BURNT ARE THE PETALS OF LIFE Burnt are the petals of life as a rose fallen and crumbled to dust. Blackened the heart of the past is, ashes that must Forever be sifted, more precious than sunbeams that open the budding to-morrow. Once was a passion completed,-too perfect, the Gods have not broken to borrow— Blackened the heart of the past is, ashes that must Forever be sifted. O, loving to-morrow The rose of the past is, Life-Eternity’s dust. ELSIE PUMPELLY CABOT FOUR FOUNTAINS AFTER RESPIGHI Fresh mists of Roman dawn; For water search the cattle; Faintly on damp air sounds the shepherd’s horn Above fountain Giulia’s prattle. Triton, joyous and loud Of Naiads summons troops; A frenziedly leaping and mingling crowd, Dancing, pursuing groups. At high noon the trumpets peal, Neptune’s chariot passes by; Trains of sirens, tritons, Trevi’s jets heal Then trumpets’ echoes sigh. Tolling bell and sunset, Twittering birds and calm; Medici’s fountain, shimmering net, Into the night brings balm. JESSICA CARR IN THE TROLLEY CAR The swart Italian in the trolley car, Hoarded his children in his arms and breast; The mother, all unheeding, sat afar, Her splendid eyes were vague, her lips compressed. One Raphael-boy slipped from his father’s knee, Climbed to her side, and gently stroked her cheek, She turned away, and would not hear his plea, She turned away, and would not even speak. With trembling lips the child crept back again To the warm shelter of his father’s breast; We looked indignant pity, for till then We thought that mother-love bore every test. We rose to go, the father-mother said, In deep, low tones, “Don’t t’inka hard you bet The younges’ was too-seeck, and he is dead, She will be alla right, when she forget.” When she forgets! “Great-Heart,” hold closer yet Thy precious brood and let it feel no lack! Until her soul shall wake, but not forget, When the warm tides of love come surging back. RUTH BALDWIN CHENERY IN IRISH RAIN The great world stretched its arms to me and held me to its breast, They say I’ve song-birds in my throat, and give me of their best; But sure, not all their gold can buy, can take me back again To little Mag o’ Monagan’s a-singing in the rain. The silver-slanting Irish rain, all warm and sweet that fills The little brackened lowland pools, and drifts across the hills; That turns the hill-grass cool and wet to dusty childish feet, And hangs above the valley-roofs, filmed blue with burning peat. And oh the kindly neighbor-folk that called the young ones in, Down fragrant yellow-tapered paths that thread the prickly whin; The hot, sweet smell of oaten-cake, the kettle purring soft, The dear-remembered Irish speech—they call to me how oft! They mind me just a slip o’ girl in tattered kirtle blue, But oh they loved me for myself, and not for what I do! And never one but had a joy to pass the time of day With little Mag o’ Monagan’s a-laughing down the way.