This pansy has a thinking face Like the yellow moon. This one has a face with white blots; I call him the clown. Here goes one down the grass With a pretty look of plumpness; She is a little girl going to school With her hands in the pockets of her pinafore. Her name is Sue. I like this one, in a bonnet, Waiting, Her eyes are so deep! But these on the other side, These that wear purple and blue, They are the Velvets, The king with his cloak, The queen with her gown, The prince with his feather. These are dark and quiet And stay alone. I know you, Velvets, Color of Dark, Like the pine-tree on the hill When stars shine! HILDA CONKLING THE MOODS The Moods have laid their hands across my hair: The Moods have drawn their fingers through my heart; My hair shall never more lie smooth and bright, But stir like tide-worn sea-weed, and my heart Shall never more be glad of small sweet things,— A wild rose, or a crescent moon,-a book Of little verses, or a dancing child. My heart turns crying from the rose and book, My heart turns crying from the thin bright moon, And weeps with useless sorrow for the child. The Moods have loosed a wind to vex my hair, And made my heart too wise, that was a child. Now I shall blow like smitten candle-flame: I shall desire all things that may not be: The years, the stars, the souls of ancient men, All tears that must, and smiles that may not be,— Yes, glimmering lights across a windy ford, And vagrant voices on a darkened plain, And holy things, and outcast things, and things, Far too remote, frail-bodied to be plain. My pity and my joy are grown alike. I cannot sweep the strangeness from my heart. The Moods have laid swift hands across my hair: The Moods have drawn swift fingers through my heart. FANNIE STEARNS DAVIS HILL-FANTASY Sitteth by the red cairn a brown One, a hoofed One, High upon the mountain, where the grasses fail. Where the ash-trees flourish far their blazing bunches to the sun, A brown One, a hoofed One, pipes against the gale. I was on the mountain, wandering, wandering; No one but the pine trees and the white birch knew. Over rocks I scrambled, looked up and saw that Strange Thing, Peakèd ears and sharp horns, pricked against the blue. Oh, and, how he piped there! piped upon the high reeds Till the blue air crackled like a frost-film on a pool! Oh, and how he spread himself, like a child whom no one heeds, Tumbled chuckling in the brook, all sleek and kind and cool! He had berries ’twixt his horns, crimson-red as cochineal., Bobbing, wagging wantonly they tickled him, and oh, How his deft lips puckered round the reed, and seemed to chase and steal Sky-music, earth-music, tree-music low! I said “Good-day, Thou!” He said, “Good-day, Thou!” Wiped his reed against the spotted doe-skin on his back, He said, “Come up here, and I will teach thee piping now. While the earth is singing so, for tunes we shall not lack.”