Sweet is the music of Arabia In my heart, when out of dreams I still in the thin clear mirk of dawn Descry her gliding streams; Hear her strange lutes on the green banks Ring loud with the grief and delight Of the dim-silked, dark-haired Musicians In the brooding silence of night. They haunt me--her lutes and her forests; No beauty on earth I see But shadowed with that dream recalls Her loveliness to me: Still eyes look coldly upon me, Cold voices whisper and say-- He is crazed with the spell of far Arabia, They have stolen his wits away.' THE SLEEPER As Ann came in one summer's day, She felt that she must creep, So silent was the clear cool house, It seemed a house of sleep. And sure, when she pushed open the door, Rapt in the stillness there, Her mother sat, with stooping head, Asleep upon a chair; Fast--fast asleep; her two hands laid Loose-folded on her knee, So that her small unconscious face Looked half unreal to be: So calmly lit with sleep's pale light Each feature was; so fair Her forehead--every trouble was Smooth'd out beneath her hair. But though her mind in dream now moved, Still seemed her gaze to rest From out beneath her fast-sealed lids, Above her moving breast, On Ann, as quite, quite still she stood; Yet slumber lay so deep Even her hands upon her lap Seemed saturate with sleep. And as Ann peeped, a cloudlike dread Stole over her, and then, On stealthy, mouselike feet she trod, And tiptoed out again. WINTER DUSK Dark frost was in the air without, The dusk was still with cold and gloom, When less than even a shadow came And stood within the room. But of the three around the fire, None turned a questioning head to look, Still read a clear voice, on and on, Still stooped they o'er their book. The children watched their mother's eyes Moving on softly line to line; It seemed to listen too--that shade, Yet made no outward sign. The fire-flames crooned a tiny song, No cold wind moved the wintry tree; The children both in Faerie dreamed Beside their mother's knee. And nearer yet that spirit drew Above that heedless one, intent Only on what the simple words Of her small story meant. No voiceless sorrow grieved her mind, No memory her bosom stirred, Nor dreamed she, as she read to two, 'Twas surely three who heard. Yet when, the story done, she smiled From face to face, serene and clear, A love, half dread, sprang up, as she Leaned close and drew them near. MISS LOO When thin-strewn memory I look through, I see most clearly poor Miss Loo, Her tabby cat, her cage of birds, Her nose, her hair--her muffled words, And how she'd open her green eyes, As if in some immense surprise, Whenever as we sat at tea, She made some small remark to me.