_Sultry the day, and gold was the hair, and golden The mist that blinded my soul away from me. Dethroned for a dream, for a gleam, for a glance, for a color, How could the crownèd be?_ _Life goeth by like a deed, nor returneth forever. Death cometh on, fleet-footed as pity should be. Hush! When she waketh at last and looketh about her, Whom will a woman see?_ Thus in her cell, Deep in the summer night, sang Guinevere-- A little, broken, blind, sweet melody-- And then she kneeled upon the convent floor, And, peaceful, finished all her prayer and slept; For she had naught to say God might not hear. SUNG TO A FRIEND. The tide is rising, rising Out of the infinite sea; From ripple, to wave, to billow, Past beryl and gold and crimson, A prism of perfect splendor; What shall the white surf be? The sacred tide is rising, Rising for you and me. Defiant across the breaker, Wave unto wave must answer, The sea to the shore will follow; When shall the great flood be? The tide must turn falling, falling Back to the awful sea. Thus far shalt thou go, no farther. The color sinks to the shadow, The pæan sobs into silence, Where shall the ebb-line be? By the weeds left blazing, beating Like heart-throbs of the sea, By the law of the land and the ocean, By the Hand that holdeth the torrent, I summon the tide eternal To flow for you and me! INCOMPLETION. Perhaps the bud lost from the loaded tree The sweetest blossom of the May would be; Or wildest song that summer could have heard Is dumb within the throat of the dead bird. The perfect statue that all men have sought May in some crippled hand be hid, unwrought. Which of our dearest dead betook his flight Into the rose-red star that fell last night? The words forever by thy lips unsaid Had been the crown of life upon thy head. The splendid sun of all my days might be The love that I shall never give to thee. RAFE'S CHASM. CAPE ANN, SEPTEMBER SURF. 1882.