Which throng the marges of life's winding ways.
Yea, these will stay when nearer things are gone;
I shall keep mine. Will you keep yours, Yvonne?


_THE BURIAL OF SCALD_

A long, low wail of harps across the snow,
Falling and rising with the whistling wind;
A shifting glare of lights that come and go,
As if men searched for what they could not find.
And then the music thrilled out loud and well
Over the waste and barren dunes of sand--
Solemn and stately as a passing bell
Heard dimly in some weary twilight land.

Then slipped the moon behind a dusky cloud,
And each bright star its silver visage hid;
Mystery 'gan the darkness to enshroud;
Across the sky a blood-red message slid.

Sudden the ship blazed up, the dark was light;
Lo! Scald is dead! his pyre was lit to-night.


* * * * *


JUDITH LYTTON