Fair was the spring you left behind, Born of a teeming womb; And now once more has a gentle wind Breathed, and the gardens bloom. Come, my darling, oh, come for an hour-- Quick e’er the night is done; And if you should ask for a single flower, How could they miss just one? Those who played in the sun with you-- Sure, they are playing still; For Life is a spendthrift hand to woo, Led by a reckless will. Come, my darling, for treasured and deep Take of my love but this; And if once more to my arms you creep, Who would begrudge one kiss? JUST TO-DAY “_But just for to-day, tell me, Mother, where the desert ... in the fairy tale is._” --_Rabindranath Tagore._ I. The shepherds slip into the fields Where Father’s gone himself. The books I should be studying Are still upon the shelf. O Mother, let me close my sleepy eyes, And tell me where the fairy desert lies. II. What makes you silent? Must you work Like Father every hour? Your hands are busy as two bees Which suck a honey flower. But, Mother, while the sunlight fills the skies, Tell me where the Tagra Desert lies. III. At curfew Father will return, And I shall lose you then. I promise some day I shall learn As much as other men. So, Mother, just before the daylight flies Tell me where the Tagra Desert lies. WALTER EDWARDS HOUGHTON, JR. _To One Bereaved_ You welcomed me with such a joyous mask Across the silence of your hurt wide eyes, That I too forced banalities and lies And dared no comfort, though I came to ask The many little questions, long rehearsed, Which meant relief, and friendship. What we said So lightly, never touched upon the dead, Yet we both knew that when we laughed we cursed The bitter God who could make laughter too, Beside this sorrow. Strange, we did not stare Mute sympathy: I only smiling sought To show I knew how bitterly was bought Your cheerful beauty. But I turned my chair, Once, when you laughed----, and looked away from you. D. G. CARTER. _Lady of the Sea_ Night, and vessels softly lifting From the surges of the sea, Arms to breezes ever shifting As they whisper low to me. Silhouetted masts are weaving Circles wavering to lean Nearer waves in slumber heaving Far below a cold moon’s sheen.... Clothed in glory, still and splendid, Starlight shimmers in her hair, And my lady’s form is blended With the shadows, waiting there. As in silence we are taken In the evening’s soft embrace, Would I never could awaken From the wonder in her face. R. P. CRENSHAW, JR.