Phyllis, ah, Phyllis, my life is a gray day, Few are my years, but my griefs are not few, Ever to youth should each day be a May-day, Warm wind and rose-breath and diamonded dew-- Phyllis, ah, Phyllis, my life is a gray day. Oh for the sunlight that shines on a May-day! Only the cloud hangeth over my life. Love that should bring me youth's happiest heyday Brings me but seasons of sorrow and strife; Phyllis, ah, Phyllis, my life is a gray day. Sunshine or shadow, or gold day or gray day, Life must be lived as our destinies rule; Leisure or labor or work day or play day-- Feasts for the famous and fun for the fool; Phyllis, ah, Phyllis, my life is a gray day. RIGHT'S SECURITY What if the wind do howl without, And turn the creaking weather-vane; What if the arrows of the rain Do beat against the window-pane? Art thou not armored strong and fast Against the sallies of the blast? Art thou not sheltered safe and well Against the flood's insistent swell? What boots it, that thou stand'st alone, And laughest in the battle's face When all the weak have fled the place And let their feet and fears keep pace? Thou wavest still thine ensign, high, And shoutest thy loud battle-cry; Higher than e'er the tempest roared, It cleaves the silence like a sword. Right arms and armors, too, that man Who will not compromise with wrong; Though single, he must front the throng, And wage the battle hard and long. Minorities, since time began, Have shown the better side of man; And often in the lists of Time One man has made a cause sublime! IF If life were but a dream, my Love, And death the waking time; If day had not a beam, my Love, And night had not a rhyme,-- A barren, barren world were this Without one saving gleam; I 'd only ask that with a kiss You 'd wake me from the dream. If dreaming were the sum of days, And loving were the bane; If battling for a wreath of bays Could soothe a heart in pain,-- I 'd scorn the meed of battle's might, All other aims above I 'd choose the human's higher right, To suffer and to love! THE SONG My soul, lost in the music's mist, Roamed, rapt, 'neath skies of amethyst. The cheerless streets grew summer meads, The Son of Phoebus spurred his steeds, And, wand'ring down the mazy tune, December lost its way in June, While from a verdant vale I heard The piping of a love-lorn bird. A something in the tender strain Revived an old, long-conquered pain, And as in depths of many seas, My heart was drowned in memories. The tears came welling to my eyes, Nor could I ask it otherwise; For, oh! a sweetness seems to last Amid the dregs of sorrows past.