No answer came back, not a word, To the patriarch there by the ford; No answer has come through the ages To the poets, the seers, and the sages Who have sought in the secrets of science The name and the nature of God, Whether cursing in desperate defiance Or kissing His absolute rod; But the answer which was and shall be, "My name! Nay, what is it to thee?" The search and the question are vain. By use of the strength that is in you, By wrestling of soul and of sinew The blessing of God you may gain. There are lights in the far-gleaming Heaven That never will shine on our eyes; To mortals it may not be given To range those inviolate skies. The mind, whether praying or scorning, That tempts those dread secrets shall fail; But strive through the night till the morning, And mightily shalt thou prevail. THE CROWS AT WASHINGTON. Slow flapping to the setting sun By twos and threes, in wavering rows, As twilight shadows dimly close, The crows fly over Washington. Under the crimson sunset sky Virginian woodlands leafless lie, In wintry torpor bleak and dun. Through the rich vault of heaven, which shines Like a warmed opal in the sun, With wide advance in broken lines The crows fly over Washington. Over the Capitol's white dome, Across the obelisk soaring bare To prick the clouds, they travel home, Content and weary, winnowing With dusky vans the golden air, Which hints the coming of the spring, Though winter whitens Washington. The dim, deep air, the level ray Of dying sunlight on their plumes, Give them a beauty not their own; Their hoarse notes fail and faint away; A rustling murmur floating down Blends sweetly with the thickening glooms; They touch with grace the fading day, Slow flying over Washington. I stand and watch with clouded eyes These dim battalions move along; Out of the distance memory cries Of days when life and hope were strong, When love was prompt and wit was gay; Even then, at evening, as to-day, I watched, while twilight hovered dim Over Potomac's curving rim, This selfsame flight of homing crows Blotting the sunset's fading rose, Above the roofs of Washington. REMORSE. Sad is the thought of sunniest days Of love and rapture perished, And shine through memory's tearful haze The eyes once fondliest cherished. Reproachful is the ghost of toys That charmed while life was wasted. But saddest is the thought of joys That never yet were tasted. Sad is the vague and tender dream Of dead love's lingering kisses, To crushed hearts haloed by the gleam Of unreturning blisses; Deep mourns the soul in anguished pride For the pitiless death that won them,-- But the saddest wail is for lips that died With the virgin dew upon them. ESSE QUAM VIDERI.