Hey! My daffodil-crowned, Slim and without sandals! As the sudden spurt of flame upon darkness So my eyeballs are startled with you, Supple-limbed youth among the fruit-trees, Light runner through tasselled orchards. You are an almond flower unsheathed Leaping and flickering between the budded branches. Or _Absence_: My cup is empty tonight, Cold and dry are its sides, Chilled by the wind from the open window. Empty and void, it sparkles white in the moonlight. The room is filled with the strange scent Of wistaria blossoms. They sway in the moon’s radiance And tap against the wall. But the cup of my heart is still, And cold, and empty. When you come, it brims Red and trembling with blood, Heart’s blood for your drinking; To fill your mouth with love And the bitter-sweet taste of a soul. —M. C. A. Star Trouble HELEN HOYT A little star Came into the heaven At the close of even. It seemed not very far, And it was young and soft. But the gray Got in its way, So that I longed to reach my hand aloft And push the clouds by From its little eye, From its little soft ray. Parasite CONRAD AIKEN Nine days he suffered. It was in this wise.— He, being scion to Homer in our time, Must needs be telling tales, in prose or rhyme; He was a pair of large blue hungry eyes. Money he had, enough to live in ease;— Drank wine occasionally; would often sit— Child and critic alternate—in the Pit: Cheap at a half-crown he thought feasts like these. Plays held him by the throat—and cinemas too— They blanched his face and made him grip his seat; And oh, fine music to his soul was sweet— He said, “His ears towards that music _grew_!” And he kept watch with stars night after night, Spinning tales from the little of life he knew.— Of modern life he was the parasite. Subtle his senses were—yea, like a child, Sudden his spirit was to cry or laugh; Strange modern blending of the tame and wild; As sensitive to life as seismograph. His sympathies were keen and sweet and quick, He could play music subtly in your mood; Raw life, to him, was often strange and rude— Slight accidents could make him white and sick. Unreasoning, but lovable was he;— Men liked him, he was brave; and yet withal When brute truth stunned him, he could cringe and crawl; When most he loved the world, he least could see. Now let him speak himself, as he well can, In his queer modern style of poesy.— Then judge him, you, as poet and as man. * * * * *