Shall I listen and wait and long, No more laughter, no more song? But still with the faded rose in my hair, Still on my lips the tremulous prayer; Till the fire goes out To a single spark. Ending the doubt; And in empty dark, Shall I sit and hear The knock, knock, knock of my heart? My Dear! AN OLD-WORLD CONVENT GARDEN Walled quiet from the din. So near, of worldly strife; A cloistered peace within, A life apart from life. Shrines bowered in roses sweet, And in a hidden dell Worn by accustomed feet, A holy well. Along the ancient wall Fruit basking in the sun; Flowers radiant and tall— A coquette every one. Bees busy on the stalks, Birds mating in the weeds— Here a pale Sister walks, Telling her beads. High walls to shut aside The world’s dear bliss and care! O Birds, your nestlings hide In sanctuary there. High walls to her, to me— But ah! to wings, how low; Blest little Birds, quite free To come—and go! A SEPTEMBER BIRTHDAY IN BRITTANY FOR C. N. B. Who counts the foolish years? This Brittany of ours, With all her gathered hopes and fears, Her scroll of smiles and tears, Is young, amid her sweet, perennial flowers. About the lone, deserted shrines Carol melodious songsters of to-day; Weaving their modern spell Through Carnac’s mighty lines The sun-burned children play, Knowing, perchance, the ancient secret well. Above the buried Ys, Stout fishers in their rainbow shallops ply; Gazing into the azure depths they sigh, Dreaming of fair Dahut, and brighter realms than this, Longing to feel her kiss. But homely love is waiting them ashore; Soon they will sigh no more. Joy of the present, full of light and life, Faith of the future years, with promise rife— Belovèd of the sea, How young is Brittany!