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II

Thou who hast made for such sure purposes
The mightiest and the meanest thing that is;
Planned out the lives of insects of the air
With fine precision and consummate care;

Thou who hast taught the bee the secret power

Of carrying on love's laws 'twixt flower and flower-
Why didst Thou shape this mortal frame of mine,
If Heavenly joys alone were Thy design?
Wherefore the wonder of my woman's breast,
By lips of lover and of babe unpressed,
If spirit-children only shall reply
Unto my ever urgent mother-cry?

Why should the rose be guided to its own,
And my love-craving heart beat on alone?

III

Yet do I understand; for Thou hast made
Something more subtle than this heart of me;
A finer part of me

To be obeyed.

Albeit I am a sister to the earth,

This nature self is not the whole of me:

The deathless soul of me

Has nobler birth.

The primal woman hungers for the man;

My better self demands the mate of me;
The spirit fate of me,

Part of Thy plan.

Nature is instinct with the mother-need;
So is my heart; but ah, the child of me

Should, undefiled of me,

Spring from love's seed.

And if in barren chastity, I must

Know but in dreams that perfect choice of me,

Still will the voice of me

Proclaim God just.

A

DREAMS

FRANCES GREGG

I

THE LUTE

H,-give way,—give way,—have pity!

The hand you lay upon me is too heavy with dreams.
Are there no little dreams among them

Of white flowers and clear water,

That you could dream through me?
You dream of flame;

And I quiver and grow dumb.

See, I am rent and torn with Beauty,

From your too heavy hand.

You grip my strings

Ah,-give way,-give way,-have pity!

T

II

FALLOW

HE blade thro' the furrow, the blade thro' the furrow,
Over and over again.

They have slashed me and wounded,

Breaking the ground for the grain.

They have left me alone, with the gray sky above me,
Brooding, and nursing my pain.

A dull dream torments me, something forgotten,-
The thrill of the germ, a gold glory of flame;
But now I am weary and sodden and broken,—
Waiting the gift of the grain.

D

THE CRISIS

MURIEL RICE

EAR, do not ask for more.

What more than friendship; the quick clasp
of hand,

Those words, when wordlessly we understand,
The smile enriched with every smile of yore?
Dear, do not ask for more.

Dear, do not ask for less.

What less than friendship; the hands free again,
The careless laughter, careless of Love's pain,
And thoughts a little wayward to confess?
Dear, do not ask for less.

And must I give thee all,

All beyond friendship; my bright years to be
Caught up in thine, a single destiny,—

Or wilt thou pass forever from my call?
Dear, must I give thee all?

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BERTRAND TO TIPHAINE

DOROTHY LANDERS BEALL

MUCH-DESIRED, thro' the willow's glooming I stray. I come upon the moon's first blooming Into a fragrant pearl and flower of light! Thro' the vague hush and tenderness of night I come, O Much-Desired!

O Delicate-Fingered, has the Woman Dawn
Taught thee her own swift touch on silvern lawn
And laggard stream and silent mountain-peak,
That on my brow and lips and blanching cheek
Thy fingers stray like light to make me speak
My soul, O Much-Desired!

O Much-Desired, as the twilight draws
Her tranquil cloudy reticence, and awes
To peace the joy of ruddy Lover-Sun

And maiden Earth, their passion-struggle done,
So thine own silence veils the pulsing heart,
The exquisite strain of mouth and mouth apart,
Till in that silence I can hear thy soul!

Love me and leave thy world, thy heaven, the whole;
Love me, O Much-Desired!

O Much-Desired, thro' the ways of time
Pale lovers shall be singing pitiful rhyme
Beneath thy darkened window. And again,
Drawn powerfully to the world of men

Thy beautiful limbs shall die a thousand deaths,
Thy tender body draw hard human breaths,
Forever and forever, Much-Desired!
Till, by the flame of ecstasy new-fired,
Thou, thou shalt love!

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