The arbor gleamed with tangled vines, Where, erstwhile, hung, ’mid emerald sheen, The clustering wealth of unpressed wines; And charms of scarlet, gold and green, With opulence of fruit and grain, Poured riches for October’s reign; Now, conquered, robbed, usurped her throne, Her sorrow welling in the moan, “Who cares for me? Who, who?” * * * * * The morning sun is mocking cold— The vanquished queen stands, pale, forlorn, Her gauzy veil of dream and gold, And royal robes, all rent and torn, With bannered glories, trampled down, To bring her victor’s sparkling crown. She feebly smiles and passes on To join the old October’s, gone— November wails—“Who cares.” On the Beach. O, tell me, rolling, tossing billow, Where thy place of rest may be!— Who shall find, and who peruse them, Were these lines consigned to thee! Will the wild winds catch and carry, ’Mid the waves tumultuous roar, Leaving them where golden glory Flames along the sunset shore? Pillowed on thy throbbing bosom _Where_ will this wee, waifling drift? Will an eager hand stretch for it, Thinking some strange tale to lift— A record brief of direst peril In a storm-wrecked sinking ship— The moment when all hope had left them— The tale ne’er told by human lip? Or, will thy rolling, rocking cradle Hold the casket unrevealed, Till thy wrenching, prying fingers Hath its secrets all unsealed?— Dropping then the worthless trifle Where wealth’s storm-wrecked treasures lie, In thy mystic, wave-worn caverns, Hidden aye, from mortal eye. Hidden. Oft the heart is full of weeping When no tears escape the lids; Bravely will stands guard o’er feeling And the tell-tale flow forbids, And for love of those who love us Every sign of sorrow hides, Counterfeiting joy and gladness Where in secret, grief abides. Though we try to gild with sunshine Thorny paths we needs must tread, Hiding, ’neath a show of courage, That we go with shrinking dread— Tho’ we hush the sob of mourning For the strong true love we knew, Yet affection’s sacred altar With forget-me-nots we strew. Every sentient heart holds hidden, From the gaze of prying eyes, All its sorrows. E’en its raptures From such sharing it denies. Love of some and dread of others Shut the heart with bolts and bars; We shrink to wound our loving dear ones— We dread the sympathy that jars. But, when night is darkly brooding Over earth with raven wings, Feeling may, with unseen fingers, Sweep the spirit’s trembling strings. Then, within its secret chamber, May the heart’s own words be said— There alone, with Love’s one taper, All its bitter tears may shed. My Robins Are Gone.