WALTER CRANE. LOVE, THE GUEST I did not dream that Love would stay, I deemed him but a passing guest, Yet here he lingers many a day. I said, “Young Love will flee with May, And leave forlorn the hearth he blest”; I did not dream that Love would stay. My envious neighbor mocks me “Nay, Love lies not long in any nest”; Yet here he lingers many a day. And though I did his will alway, And gave him even of my best; I did not dream that Love would stay. I have no skill to bid him stay, Of tripping tongue or cunning jest, Yet here he lingers many a day. Beneath his ivory feet I lay Pale plumage of the ringdove’s breast; I did not dream that Love would stay. Will Love be flown? I ofttimes say, Home turning for the noonday rest; Yet here he lingers many a day. His gold curls gleam, his lips are gay, His eyes through tears smile loveliest; I did not dream that love would stay. He sometimes sighs when far away The low red sun makes fair the west, Yet here he lingers many a day. Thrice blest of all men am I! yea, Although of all unworthiest; I did not dream that Love would stay, Yet here he lingers many a day. GRAHAM R. TOMSON. CUPID Selfish rogue, did Psyche dream, When her lamp she held above him, How the oil would downward stream, Wake the rogue and make her love him? MARY CHACE PECKHAM. FOR CUPID DEAD When Love is dead, what more but funeral rites— To lay his sweet corse lovingly to rest, To cover him with rose and eglantine, And all fair posies that he loved the best? What more, but kisses for his close-shut eyes— His cold, still lips that never more will speak— His hair, too bright for dust of death to dim— The flush scarce faded from his frozen cheek? What more but tears that will not warm his brow, Although they burn the eyes from which they start?— No bitter weeping or more bitter words Can rouse to one more throb that pulseless heart. So dead he is, who once was so alive! In summer, when the ardent days were long, He was as warm as June, as gay and glad As any bird that swelled its throat with song. So dead!—yet all things were his ministers— All birds and blossoms, and the joyous June! Would they had died, and kept sweet Love alive; Since he is gone the world is out of tune. LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. [Illustration: AT THE SIGN OF THE BLIND CUPID]