"For O, my Lord, the house-dove knows her nest Above my window builded from the rain; In the brown mere the heron finds her rest, But these shall seek in vain. "And O, my Lord, the thrush may fold his wing, The curlew seek the long lift of the seas, The wild swan sleep amid his journeying; There is no place for these. "Thy dead are sheltered; housed and warmed they wait Under the golden fern, the falling foam; But these Thy living wander desolate, And have not any home." And here is an exquisite poem, _The Immortal_, which is full of Miss Pickthall's own music: "Beauty is still immortal in our eyes, When sways no more the spirit-haunted reed, When the wild grape shall build No more her canopies, When blows no more the moon-grey thistle seed, When the last bell has lulled the white flocks home, When the last eve has stilled The wandering wing, and touched the dying foam, When the last moon burns low, and, spark by spark, The little worlds die out along the dark-- "Beauty that rosed the moth-wing, touched the land With clover-horns and delicate faint flowers; {284} Beauty that bade the showers Beat on the violet's face, Shall hold the eternal heavens within their place, And hear new stars come singing from God's hand." We cannot resist, before leaving Miss Pickthall, quoting a lovely little lyric of hers called simply _Serenade_: "Dark is the Iris meadow, Dark is the ivory tower, And lightly the young moth's shadow Sleeps on the passion flower. "Gone are our day's red roses, Lovely and lost and few, But the first star uncloses A silver bud in the blue. "Night, and a flame in the embers When the seal of the years was set; When the almond bough remembers How shall my heart forget?" Passing mention has been made of the names of Ethelwyn Wetherald and Pauline Johnson, but the work of these poets is too distinctive to avoid some reference to it. Miss Wetherald has published some half-dozen books of verse, all made up chiefly of short lyrics, and all possessing an individual quality which may well be called unique. Here is one of her strongest poems, entitled _Prodigal Yet_: "Muck of the sty, reek of the trough, Blackened my brow where all might see, Yet while I was a great way off My Father ran with compassion for me. "He put on my hand a ring of gold (There's no escape from a ring, they say); He put on my neck a chain to hold My passionate spirit from breaking away. {285} "He put on my feet the shoes that miss No chance to tread in the narrow path; He pressed on my lips the burning kiss That scorches deeper than fires of wrath. "He filled my body with meat and wine, He flooded my heart with love's white light! Yet deep in the mire, with sensuous swine, I long--God help me!--to wallow to-night.