In town I hear, scarce wakened yet, My neighbor’s clock behind the wall Record the day’s increasing debt, And _Cuckoo! Cuckoo!_ faintly call. Our senses run in deepening grooves, Thrown out of which they lose their tact, And consciousness with effort moves From habit past to present fact. So, in the country waked to-day, I hear, unwitting of the change, A cuckoo’s throb from far away Begin to strike, nor think it strange. The sound creates its wonted frame: My bed at home, the songster hid Behind the wainscoting,--all came As long association bid. I count to learn how late it is, Until, arrived at thirty-four, I question, “What strange world is this Whose lavish hours would make me poor?” _Cuckoo! Cuckoo!_ Still on it went, With hints of mockery in its tone; How could such hoards of time be spent By one poor mortal’s wit alone? I have it! Grant, ye kindly Powers, I from this spot may never stir, If only these uncounted hours May pass, and seem too short, with Her! But who She is, her form and face, These to the world of dream belong; She moves through fancy’s visioned space, Unbodied, like the cuckoo’s song. AGRO-DOLCE. One kiss from all others prevents me, And sets all my pulses astir, And burns on my lips and torments me: ’Tis the kiss that I fain would give her. One kiss for all others requites me, Although it is never to be, And sweetens my dreams and invites me: ’Tis the kiss that she dare not give me. Ah, could it be mine, it were sweeter Than honey bees garner in dream, Though its bliss on my lips were fleeter Than a swallow’s dip to the stream. And yet, thus denied, it can never In the prose of life vanish away; O’er my lips it must hover forever, The sunshine and shade of my day. THE BROKEN TRYST. Walking alone where we walked together, When June was breezy and blue, I watch in the gray autumnal weather The leaves fall inconstant as you. If a dead leaf startle behind me, I think ’tis your garment’s hem, And, oh, where no memory could find me, Might I whirl away with them! CASA SIN ALMA. RECUERDO DE MADRID. Silencioso por la puerta Voy de su casa desierta Do siempre feliz entré, Y la encuentro en vano abierta Cual la boca de una muerta Despues que el alma se fué. A CHRISTMAS CAROL. FOR THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL CHILDREN OF THE CHURCH OF THE DISCIPLES. “What means this glory round our feet,” The Magi mused, “more bright than morn?” And voices chanted clear and sweet, “To-day the Prince of Peace is born!” “What means that star,” the Shepherds said, “That brightens through the rocky glen?” And angels, answering overhead, Sang, “Peace on earth, good-will to men!” ’Tis eighteen hundred years and more Since those sweet oracles were dumb; We wait for Him, like them of yore; Alas, He seems so slow to come! But it was said, in words of gold No time or sorrow e’er shall dim, That little children might be bold In perfect trust to come to Him.