My thoughts are rose-like, beautiful and bright, Folded precise as petals are, and wings Uplift my dreaming suddenly in flight, And fill my soul with jagged colorings. The waters tangle like a woman’s hair Above the dim reflection of a face— He thinks those are his own lips laughing there, His own breasts curving under silk and lace. How shall we know our real selves, he and I, Which is the woman, which the butterfly? HUMILIATION How nakedly an animal Lies down on earth to die, Unmindful of the shining air, And unashamed of sky. But men and women under roofs Draw shades and hush the floor, And furtively they lay their dead Behind a darkened door. LOVE SONG FROM NEW ENGLAND In every solemn tree the wind Has rung a little lonesome bell, As sweet and clear, as cool and kind As my voice bidding you farewell. This is an hour that gods have loved To snatch with bare, bright hands and hold. Mine, with a gesture, grey and gloved, Dismiss it from me in the cold. Closely as some dark-shuttered house I keep my light. How should you know, That, as you turn beneath brown boughs, My heart is breaking in the snow? _Herbert S. Gorman_ Herbert S. Gorman was born at Springfield, Massachusetts, January 1, 1893. After attending Technical High School he became an actor for two seasons, deserting the stage for the newspaper. He became assistant literary and dramatic editor of the Springfield Union, reporter on the New York _Sun_ and reviewer for the New York _Post_, _The Freeman_ and other journals. His first book, _The Fool of Love_ (1920), shows, above an indebtedness to E. A. Robinson, a keen talent and fresh personality. THE FANATIC Well, here it is: you call for me: I come, But with an eagerness not quite my own; Propelled by that decisive martyrdom That pleased the saints upon their faggot throne. You see them smiling in the cruel flame That exquisitely licks their willing limbs, And finding some sad pleasure in the game Not quite embodied in their lusty hymns. And so I come: and though I go, be sure That I will come again to-morrow, too; And, Love’s fanatic, hasten to endure The littleness that is so great in you.