And then upon a morn he found it shifted, Hung in a corner by a servitor. “Why did you take on you to hang that picture? You know it was the frame I bought it for.” “It stood in the way of every visitor, And I just hitched it there.”—“Well, it must go: I don’t commemorate men whom I abhor. Remind me ’tis to do. The frame I’ll stow.” But things become forgotten. In the shadow Of the dark corner hung it by its string, And there it stayed—once noticed by its owner, Who said, “Ah me—I must destroy that thing!” But when he died, there, none remembering, It hung, till moved to prominence, as one sees; And comers pause and say, examining, “I thought they were the bitterest enemies?” IMAGININGS SHE saw herself a lady With fifty frocks in wear, And rolling wheels, and rooms the best, And faithful maidens’ care, And open lawns and shady For weathers warm or drear. She found herself a striver, All liberal gifts debarred, With days of gloom, and movements stressed, And early visions marred, And got no man to wive her But one whose lot was hard. Yet in the moony night-time She steals to stile and lea During his heavy slumberous rest When homecome wearily, And dreams of some blest bright-time She knows can never be. ON THE DOORSTEP THE rain imprinted the step’s wet shine With target-circles that quivered and crossed As I was leaving this porch of mine; When from within there swelled and paused A song’s sweet note; And back I turned, and thought, “Here I’ll abide.” The step shines wet beneath the rain, Which prints its circles as heretofore; I watch them from the porch again, But no song-notes within the door Now call to me To shun the dripping lea And forth I stride. _Jan._ 1914. SIGNS AND TOKENS SAID the red-cloaked crone In a whispered moan: “The dead man was limp When laid in his chest; Yea, limp; and why But to signify That the grave will crimp Ere next year’s sun Yet another one Of those in that house— It may be the best— For its endless drowse!” Said the brown-shawled dame To confirm the same: “And the slothful flies On the rotting fruit Have been seen to wear While crawling there Crape scarves, by eyes That were quick and acute; As did those that had pitched On the cows by the pails, And with flaps of their tails Were far away switched.” Said the third in plaid, Each word being weighed: “And trotting does In the park, in the lane, And just outside The shuttered pane, Have also been heard— Quick feet as light As the feet of a sprite— And the wise mind knows What things may betide When such has occurred.” Cried the black-craped fourth, Cold faced as the north: