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

The pale discrowned stacks of maiz…    Like spectres in the sun, Stand shivering nigh Avonaise,    Where all is dead and gone. The sere leaves make a music vain,

On a golden dawn in the dawn subli… Of years ere the stars had ceased… Beautiful out of the sea-deeps col… Aphrodite arose—the Flower of Tim… That, dear till the day of her blo…

Give thou a gift to me From thy treasure-house, O sea! Said a red-lipped laughing girl While the summer yet was young; And the sea laughed back and flung

They brought my fair love out upon… Out from the dwelling that her smi… Out from the life that her life ma… Into the glitter of the garish str… And no man wept, save I, for that…

These broken lines for pardon crav… I cannot end the song with art: My grief is gray and old—her grave Is dug so deep within my heart. IT was a day of sombre heat:

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

And after all—and after all,    Our passionate prayers, and sig… Is life a reckless carnival?    And are they lost, our golden y… Ah, no; ah, no; for, long ago,

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…

Within his office, smiling. Sat JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN, But all the screws of Birmingham Were working in his brain. The heart within his bosom

ONCE a poet—long ago— Wrote a song as void of art As the songs that children know, And as pure as a child’s heart. With a sigh he threw it down,

There is a town in Ireland, A little town I know; Its girls have tender Irish eyes Beneath their brows of snow; And in the field around it

WHO are these strange small folk, These that come to our homes as ki… Asking nor leave nor grace, Bending our necks to their yoke, Taking the highest place,

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

He sat beneath the curling vines That round the gay verandah twined… His forehead seamed with sorrow’s… An old man with a weary mind. His young wife, with a rosy face