Helen of Troy was beautiful As tender flower in May, Her loveliness from the towers looked down, With the sweet moon for silver crown, Over the walls of Troy Town, Hundreds of years away. Cleopatra, Egypt's Queen, Was wondrous kind to ken, As when the stars in the dark sky Like buds on thorny branches lie, So seemed she too to Antony, That age-gone prince of men. The Pyramids are old stones, Scarred is that grey face, That by the greenness of Old Nile Gazes with an unchanging smile, Man with all mystery to beguile And give his thinking grace. HOME Rest, rest--there is no rest, Until the quiet grave Comes with its narrow arch The heart to save From life's long cankering rust, From torpor, cold and still-- The loveless, saddened dust, The jaded will. And yet, be far the hour Whose haven calls me home; Long be the arduous day Till evening come; What sureness now remains But that through livelong strife Only the loser gains An end to life? Then in the soundless deep Of even the shallowest grave Childhood and love he'll keep, And his soul save; All vext desire, all vain Cries of a conflict done Fallen to rest again; Death's refuge won. THE GHOST Peace in thy hands, Peace in thine eyes, Peace on thy brow; Flower of a moment in the eternal hour, Peace with me now. Not a wave breaks, Not a bird calls, My heart, like a sea, Silent after a storm that hath died, Sleeps within me. All the night's dews, All the world's leaves, All winter's snow Seem with their quiet to have stilled in life's dream All sorrowing now. AN EPITAPH Here lies a most beautiful lady, Light of step and heart was she; I think she was the most beautiful lady That ever was in the West Country. But beauty vanishes; beauty passes; However rare--rare it be; And when I crumble, who will remember This lady of the West Country? 'THE HAWTHORN HATH A DEATHLY SMELL' The flowers of the field Have a sweet smell; Meadowsweet, tansy, thyme, And faint-heart pimpernel; But sweeter even than these, The silver of the may Wreathed is with incense for The Judgment Day. An apple, a child, dust, When falls the evening rain, Wild briar's spicèd leaves, Breathe memories again; With further memory fraught, The silver of the may Wreathed is with incense for The Judgment Day. Eyes of all loveliness-- Shadow of strange delight, Even as a flower fades Must thou from sight; But oh, o'er thy grave's mound, Till come the Judgment Day, Wreathed shall with incense be Thy sharp-thorned may. _The Third Edition, Revised and Enlarged, of_ THE HOME BOOK OF VERSE COMPILED BY BURTON E. STEVENSON has been revised from end to end--590 poems have been added, pages renumbered, author, title, and first line indices, and the biographical matter corrected, etc., etc.