The Woman at the Washtub, She works till fall of night; With soap and suds and soda Her hands are wrinkled white. Her diamonds are the sparkles

These are the flowers of sleep That nod in the heavy noon, Ere the brown shades eastward cree… To a drowsy and dreamful tune— These are the flowers of sleep.

ALL silent is the room, There is no stir of breath, Save mine, as in the gloom I sit alone with Death. Short life it had, the sweet,

HAVING certain cares to drown, To the sea I took them down: And I threw them in the wave, That engulfed them like a grave. Swiftly then I plied the oar

O THE Queen may keep her golden Crown and sceptre of command! I would give them both twice over To be King of Babyland. Sure, it is a wondrous country

What! Don’t you our Mæcenas kno… The man who started, years ago, Our Wild Australian Author show? You don’t? Your ignorance sublim… Exceeds– to use a Boston rhyme –

METHOUGHT I came unto a world… Where souls stood thick as grain a… And many reapers, full of pious pr… With rapid scythe-sweeps mowed the… And zealous binders bound them up…

Through the noiseless doors of De… Three passed out, as with one brea… Two had faces stern as Fate, Stamped with unrelenting hate. One upon her lips of guile

LO, upon the carpet, where Throned upon a heap of slain Blue-eyed dolls of beauty rare (Ah, they pleaded all in vain!) Sits the Infant Tamerlane!

The wan light of a stormy dawn Gleamed on a tossing ship: It was the In Memoriam Upon a mourning trip. Wild waves were on the windward bo…

The waters make a music low: The river reeds Are trembling to the tunes of long… Dead days and deeds Become alive again, as on

The Muse who comes each morning In rozy gauze is clad; Her head is crowned with flowers, Her eyes are clear and glad. Upon her virgin bosom

The Sun burns fiercely down the s… The sea is full of flashing eyes; The waves glide shoreward serpentw… And fawn with foamy tongues on sta… Gray rocks, each sharp-toothed as…

Dedicated to Louis Becke You are now in London town, Louis Becke, Keeping up your old renown, Writing yarns of women brown,

BY his side, whose days are past, Lay bow and quiver! And his eyes that stare aghast Close, with a shiver. God nor man from Death, at last,