_The pitiless mountain stands so sure. The human breast so weakly heaves, That brains decay while rocks endure. At this the insatiate spirit grieves._ But hither, oh ideal bride! For whom this heart in silence aches, Love is unwearied as the tide, Love is perennial as the lakes. Come thou. The spiky crags will seem One harvest of one heavenly year, And fear of death, like childish dream, Will pass and flee, when thou art here. Very possibly this charming meditation was written on the Welsh coast; there is just such scenery as the poem describes, and the grand peak of Snowdon would well realize the imagination of the line about the girlhood of the growing hills. The melancholy of the latter part of the composition is the same melancholy to be found in "Mimnermus in Church," the first of Cory's poems which we read together. It is the Greek teaching that there is nothing to console us for the great doubt and mystery of existence except unselfish affection. All through the book we find the same philosophy, even in the beautiful studies of student life and the memories of childhood. So it is quite a melancholy book, though the sadness be beautiful. I have given you examples of the sadness of doubt and of the sadness of love; but there is yet a third kind of sadness--the sadness of a childless man, wishing that he could have a child of his own. It is a very pretty thing, simply entitled "Scheveningen Avenue"--probably the name of the avenue where the incident occurred. The poet does not tell us how it occurred, but we can very well guess. He was riding in a street car, probably, and a little girl next to him, while sitting upon her nurse's lap, fell asleep, and as she slept let her head fall upon his shoulder. This is a very simple thing to make a poem about, but what a poem it is! Oh, that the road were longer A mile, or two, or three! So might the thought grow stronger That flows from touch of thee. _Oh little slumbering maid, If thou wert five years older, Thine head would not be laid So simply on my shoulder!_ _Oh, would that I were younger, Oh, were I more like thee, I should not faintly hunger For love that cannot be._ A girl might be caressed Beside me freely sitting; A child on knee might rest, And not like thee, unwitting. Such honour is thy mother's, Who smileth on thy sleep, Or for the nurse who smothers Thy cheek in kisses deep. And but for parting day, And but for forest shady, From me they'd take away The burden of their lady. Ah thus to feel thee leaning Above the nursemaid's hand, Is like a stranger's gleaning Where rich men own the land; Chance gains, and humble thrift, With shyness much like thieving, No notice with the gift, No thanks with the receiving. Oh peasant, when thou starvest Outside the fair domain, Imagine there's a harvest In every treasured grain.