Ay, so! because thou thought’st to tread Love’s ways, and all his bidding do, Because thou hast not tired (they said), Nor ever wert to Love untrue: Because thou hast not tired, as we, How tedious must thy service be; Love with thy zeal is surfeited! Go to! Love loves thee not (they said). * * * * * Every contradiction of passion is in this poem, and the very refinement of satire, as well. In “The Domino,” Miss Thomas images, with a pleasant humor, the various disguises under which one meets Love, and symbolizes in “The Barrier” the infallible intuition, the psychic sense, by which one feels a change not yet apparent. “A Home-Thrust,” wherein the inconstant one betrays himself by his doubt of another’s constancy, and “So It Was Decreed,” are also among the psychological bits of delineation; but for the less penetrative but sweeter and more memorable note, there are two short poems, “Vos Non Vobis,” and “The Deep-Sea Pearl,” tender, human, sufficiently universal to appeal to all and artistically wrought. The first records that, There was a garden planned in Spring’s young days, Then, Summer held it in her bounteous hand; And many wandered thro’ its blooming ways; But ne’er the one for whom the work was planned. And it was vainly done— For what are many, if we lack the one? There was a song that lived within the heart Long time—and then on Music’s wing it strayed! All sing it now, all praise its artless art; But ne’er the one for whom the song was made. And it was vainly done— For what are many, if we lack the one? The whole argument of Art versus Life is summed up in this poem. The second lyric, of eight lines, is as delicate as the symbol it employs, and globes within it, as the drop within the pearl, many a life-history: The love of my life came not As love unto others is cast; For mine was a secret wound— But the wound grew a pearl, at last. The divers may come and go, The tides, they arise and fall; The pearl in its shell lies sealed, And the Deep Sea covers all. It is in such poems as bring from the heart of life a certain poignant strain that Miss Thomas is at her best. She is not a melancholy singer, but her work is too deeply rooted in the pain and unrest of life to be joyous. A certain longing, an almost impalpable sadness, pervades much of her verse. Nevertheless, it is not so emphasized as to be depressing, and, indeed, adds just the touch of personality by which one treasures that which he feels has been fused in experience. This pertains to the more intimate phases of Miss Thomas’ work. Upon death she has written with deep feeling and insight,—feeling all too vital to be analyzed, such as renders Spring the season When that blithe, forerunning air Breathes more hope than thou canst bear.