Dimly too, as cloud on cloud, Came that silent flock of his: Thronging whiteness, in a crowd, After homing twos and threes; With the longing memories Of all white things dreamed and vowed. Through the fragrances, alone, By the sudden-silent brook, From the open world unknown, To the close of speech and book; There to find the foreign look In the faces of his own. Sharing was beyond his skill; Shyly yet, he made essay: Sought to dip, and share, and fill Heart’s-desire, from day to day. But their eyes, some foreign way, Looked at him; and he was still. Last, he reached his arms to sleep, Where the Vision waited, dim, Still beyond some deep-on-deep. And the darkness folded him, Eager heart and weary limb.— All day long, he kept the sheep. JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY HARVEST-MOON: 1914 Over the twilight field, The overflowing field,— Over the glimmering field, And bleeding furrows with their sodden yield Of sheaves that still did writhe, After the scythe; The teeming field and darkly overstrewn With all the garnered fulness of that noon— Two looked upon each other. One was a Woman men called their mother; And one, the Harvest-Moon. And one, the Harvest-Moon, Who stood, who gazed On those unquiet gleanings where they bled; Till the lone Woman said: “But we were crazed… We should laugh now together, I and you, We two. You, for your dreaming it was worth A star’s while to look on and light the Earth; And I, forever telling to my mind, Glory it was, and gladness, to give birth To humankind! Yes, I, that ever thought it not amiss To give the breath to men, For men to slay again: Lording it over anguish but to give My life that men might live For this. You will be laughing now, remembering I called you once Dead World, and barren thing, Yes, so we named you then, You, far more wise Than to give life to men.” Over the field, that there Gave back the skies A shattered upward stare From blank white eyes,— Striving awhile, through many a bleeding dune Of throbbing clay, but dumb and quiet soon, She looked; and went her way— The Harvest-Moon. JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEAODY HORSEMAN SPRINGING FROM THE DARK: A DREAM “Horseman, springing from the dark, Horseman, flying wild and free, Tell me what shall be thy road Whither speedest far from me?” “From the dark into the light, From the small unto the great, From the valleys dark I ride O’er the hills to conquer fate!” “Take me with thee, horseman mine! Let me madly rode with thee!” As he turned I met his eyes, My own soul looked back at me! LILLA CABOT PERRY THREE QUATRAINS THE CUP She said, “Lift high the cup!” Of her arm’s weariness she gave no sign, But, smiling, raised it up That none might see or guess it held no wine. FORGIVE ME NOT! Forgive me not! Hate me and I shall know Some of Love’s fire still burns within your breast! Forgiveness finds its home in hearts at rest, On dead volcanoes only lies the snow. THE ROSE