O my great dead! You had not gone, you had stayed—in my heart, in my veins, Reaching through me, through others through me, through all at last, our brothers, A hand to the future. _Frank Dempster Sherman_ Frank Dempster Sherman was born at Peekskill, New York, May 6, 1860. He entered Columbia University in 1879, where, after graduation and a subsequent instructorship, he was made adjunct professor in 1891 and Professor of Graphics in 1904. He held the latter position until his death, which occurred September 19, 1916. Besides being a writer of airy lyrics and epigrammatic quatrains, Sherman was an enthusiastic genealogist and a designer (especially of book-plates) of no little skill. As a poet, his gift was essentially that of a writer of light verse—fragrant, fragile, yet seldom too sentimental or brittle. Pleasant is the name for it, a pleasantness perfumed with a pungent wit. Sherman never wearied of the little lyric; even the titles of his volumes are instances of his penchant for the brief melody, for the sudden snatch of song: _Madrigals and Catches_ (1887), _Lyrics for a Lute_ (1890), _Little-Folk Lyrics_ (1892), _Lyrics of Joy_ (1904). A sumptuous collected edition of his poems was published, with an Introduction by Clinton Scollard, in 1917. AT MIDNIGHT See, yonder, the belfry tower That gleams in the moon’s pale light— Or is it a ghostly flower That dreams in the silent night? I listen and hear the chime Go quavering over the town, And out of this flower of Time Twelve petals are wafted down. BACCHUS Listen to the tawny thief, Hid beneath the waxen leaf, Growling at his fairy host, Bidding her with angry boast Fill his cup with wine distilled From the dew the dawn has spilled: Stored away in golden casks Is the precious draught he asks. Who,—who makes this mimic din In this mimic meadow inn, Sings in such a drowsy note, Wears a golden-belted coat; Loiters in the dainty room Of this tavern of perfume; Dares to linger at the cup Till the yellow sun is up? Bacchus ’tis, come back again To the busy haunts of men; Garlanded and gaily dressed, Bands of gold about his breast; Straying from his paradise, Having pinions angel-wise,— ’Tis the honey-bee, who goes Reveling within a rose!