_Oh Sapphire from a distant vale_     _Where the white Himalayas tower:_ _Where the Kashmir lakes are royal blue,_ _And passions strong and hearts are true,_ _All these are met and blent in you,_     _A princely heir and dower._ THE TWINS. Out of the wonderful nowhere,     Into the lowly here; Laughing and loving and lithesome,     And radiating cheer. Twin rose-buds o’ Killarney hue—     Fragrant and fresh and fair— And eyes of blue, wide-gazed and true,     And tawny yellow hair. And smiles as sweet as any meet     In pleasant paths above: And golden laughter that echoes after,     To finger the chords of love. Two wee buds o’ Killarney hue     That beckon and beguile— And ’neath your spell we’re learning well     There is something still worth while. Though drab days break and drab thoughts wake     O’er fields of sleet and snow, There’s sunshine rare just _everywhere_—     For you have taught us so. ON SENDING MY BOOK TO AN ENGLISH FRIEND. “It’s a long lane that knows no turnings”—     And the seas are wide indeed, But there are no barriers dividing     The Anglo-Saxon creed. Fair fighting when the skies are lowering—     Fair peace when skies are clear— And the faith of fair intentions, unfaltering,     And the heart that holds no fear. “It’s a long lane that knows no turnings”—     And Browning never said a thing more true, So I know you’ll know the spirit that impels me     To send this little messenger to you. IMMORTAL KEATS. Matchless bard of all the ages—     Lyric sounder of the lyre— Wake among your golden echoes—     Rise amid your latent fire— Tell us, Master of the Muses—     Sweetest singer ever sung— By what law of Earth or Heaven     Ye were called away so young? By what law of God or Mammon—     By what creed of land or sea— Was a weary World forsaken     Of the mind that harbored thee? Ere that wondrous mind’s fruition     Scarce had grown to the tree. If the half-fledged sapling gave us     Melodies past human praise— If such virgin buddings crowded     Those few sad and glorious days; If such flowers, barely opened,     Swept us in a wild amaze— What, Oh Lord and Prince of Poesy,     Would your soul have given to men— What the marvelous meed and measure     Of your pulsing, choral pen— Had your numbered days been lengthened     To a three score years and ten? As through mystic lands ye led us     O’er the paths your feet had gone: Pipes of Pan—and fain we followed—     Glad and willing slave and pawn, Till we reached the fields Elysian—     Till we faced the gorgeous dawn: Till the lanes seemed filled with roses—     Roses lipped with opal dew: Till the vales seemed filled with incense—     Incense slowly drifting through: Till the seas seemed filled with grottoes—     Grottoes amber, gold and blue: