And now to you--you whose names are written in these blurred pages, some portion of whose lives I have tried to trace with a wandering and uncertain pen--I stretch out a hand of farewell. Yet not quite of farewell, perhaps: for amid all the shapes and phantoms of this world of mystery, where the shadows we meet can tell us neither whence they came nor whither they go, surely you have for me a no less substantial existence that may have its chances in the time to come. To me you are more real than most I know: what wonder then if I were to meet you on the threshold of the great unknown, you all shining with a new light on your face? Trembling, I stretch out my hands to you, for your silence is awful, and there is sadness in your eyes; but the day may come when you will speak, and I shall hear--and understand. JULIET ON THE BALCONY. O lips that are so lonely For want of his caress; O heart that art too faithful To ever love him less; O eyes that find no sweetness For hunger of his face; O hands that long to feel him, Always, in every place! My spirit leans and listens, But only hears his name, And thought to thought leaps onward As flame leaps unto flame; And all kin to each other As any brood of flowers, Or these sweet winds of night, love, That fan the fainting hours! My spirit leans and listens, My heart stands up and cries, And only one sweet vision Comes ever to my eyes. So near and yet so far, love, So dear, yet out of reach, So like some distant star, love, Unnamed in human speech! My spirit leans and listens, My heart goes out to him, Through all the long night watches, Until the dawning dim; My spirit leans and listens, What if, across the night, His strong heart send a message To flood me with delight? HOWARD GLYNDON. OUR RURAL DIVINITY.