Yet was it thine my sweet, This love, though weak as young corn witheréd, Whereof no man may gather and make bread; Thine, though it never knew the summer heat; Forget not quite, my sweet. AN OLD PRAYER. Χαιρέ μοι, ῶ Βασίλεια, διαμπερὲς εἰς ὅ κε γῆρας Ἔλθῃ καὶ θάνατος,τὰ τ’ ἐπ’ ἀνθρώποισι πέλονται. ODYSSEY, xiii. 59. * * * * * MY prayer an old prayer borroweth, Of ancient love and memory— ‘Do thou farewell, till Eld and Death, That come to all men, come to thee.’ Gently as winter’s early breath, Scarce felt, what time the swallows flee, To lands whereof _no man knoweth_ Of summer, over land and sea; So with thy soul may summer be, Even as the ancient singer saith, ‘Do thou farewell, till Eld and Death, That come to all men, come to thee.’ LOVE’S MIRACLE. WITH other helpless folk about the gate, The gate called Beautiful, with weary eyes That take no pleasure in the summer skies, Nor all things that are fairest, does she wait; So bleak a time, so sad a changeless fate Makes her with dull experience early wise, And in the dawning and the sunset, sighs That all hath been, and shall be, desolate. Ah, if Love come not soon, and bid her live, And know herself the fairest of fair things, Ah, if he have no healing gift to give, Warm from his breast, and holy from his wings, Or if at least Love’s shadow in passing by Touch not and heal her, surely she must die. DREAMS. HE spake not truth, however wise, who said That happy, and that hapless men in sleep Have equal fortune, fallen from care as deep As countless, careless, races of the dead. Not so, for alien paths of dreams we tread, And one beholds the faces that he sighs In vain to bring before his daylit eyes, And waking, he remembers on his bed; And one with fainting heart and feeble hand Fights a dim battle in a doubtful land, Where strength and courage were of no avail; And one is borne on fairy breezes far To the bright harbours of a golden star Down fragrant fleeting waters rosy pale. FAIRY LAND.