Indian summer has gone with its beautiful moon. And all the sweet roses I gathered in June Are faded. It may be the cloud-sylphs of Even Have stolen the tints of those roses for Heaven. O bonnie bright blossom! in the years far away. So evanished thy bloom on an evening in May. The sunlight now sleeps in the lap of the west, And the star-beams are barring its chamber of rest. While Twilight is weaving her blue-tinted bowers To mellow the landscape where slumber the flowers. I would fain learn the music that won thee away, When the earth was the beautiful temple of May; For our fancies were measured the bright summer long To the carols we learned from the lark's morning song. They still haunt me--those echoes from Child land--but now My heart beats alone to their musical flow. _Then_ I never looked up to the portals on high, For our Heaven was here; and our azure-stained sky Was the violet mead; the cloud-billows of snow Were the pale nodding lilies; the roses that glow On the crown of the hill, gave the soft blushing hue: The gold was the crocus; the silver, the dew Which met as it fell, the glad sunlight of smiles. And wove the gay rainbow of Hope, o'er our aisles. But the charm of the spring-time has vanished with thee; To its mystical speech I've forgotten the key; Yet, if angels and flowers _are_ closely allied, I may trace thy lost bloom on the blushing hillside; And when rose-buds are opening their petals in June, I'll feel thou art near me and teaching the tune. Which chanted by seraphim, won thee away On that blossoming eve, from the gardens of May. MARY V. TINGLEY LAWRENCE, in _Poetry of the Pacific._ A VOICE ON THE WIND. And out of the West came a voice on the wind: O seek for the truth and behold, ye shall find! O strive for the right and behold, ye shall do All things that the Master commandeth of you. For love is the truth ye have sought for so long, And love is the right that ye strove for through wrong. Love! love spheres our lives with a halo of fire, But God, how 'tis dimmed by each selfish desire! CHARLES KEELER, in _Idyls of El Dorado_ (out of print). AUGUST 1. THE AGE OF THE SEQUOIAS.