She woke at dawn and lifted up her head so old and gray, And stared across the sandy beach, and o'er the low blue bay. It was the hour when mists depart and midnight phantoms flee, The rosy sun was blushing red along the splendid sea. A rapture lit her face. "The bay is white with sails!" she cried, "They sweep it like the silver foam of waves at rising tide-- Sails from an unknown sea. Oh, haste and bring my wedding-gown-- It is the long-lost fishing-fleet come back to Gloucester town! And look! his _Nan_ leads all the rest. Dear Lord, I see my Joe! He beckons from her shining deck--haste, friends, for I must go. The old, old light is in his eyes, the old smile on his lips; All grand and pale he stands among the crowding, white-winged ships. This is our wedding-morn. At last the bridegroom claims his bride. Sweetheart, I have been true; my hand--here--take it!" Then she died. WHEN THE SNOW SIFTS THROUGH[19] S. W. GILLILAN The icy gale that hurled the snow Against the window pane, And rattled the sash with a merry clash Used not its strength in vain; For now and then a wee flake sifted Through the loose ill-fitting frame, By the warmer breezes each was lifted All melting as they came. The baby stood with shining eyes, Her hands upon the sill; She watched each flake and the course 'twould take, And her voice was never still. 'Twas, "Papa, where does the whiteness go?" And, "Where's all the beauty gone? What makes it be wet spots 'stead o' snow, When it gets in where it's warm?" I smiled that day, but seldom now Does the thought of smiling come; A phantom shape, a bow of crape, And my sweet little child went home. O Father, "Where does the whiteness go? And whither's the beauty flown? Why are there 'wet spots 'stead o' snow' On my cheek as I face the storm?" Again the wild wind hurls the snow Against the frosted pane And a few flakes dash through the rattling sash, While I hear those words again. The flakes scurry off to a spot on the hill Where a little mound is seen, And they cover it softly and tenderly As the grass with its cloak of green. FOOTNOTE: [19] By permission of the author. TO A WILD FLOWER[20] MAURICE THOMPSON In the green solitudes Of the deep, shady woods Thy lot is kindly cast, and life to thee Is like a gust of rarest minstrelsy. The winds of May and June Hum many a tender tune, Blowing above thy leafy hiding-place, Kissing, all thrilled with joy, thy modest face. About thee float and glow Rare insects, hovering low, And round thee glance thin streams of delicate grass, Plashing their odors on thee as they pass.