nature,--a sort of tact of sentiment and expression, an instinct
of the true and beautiful, and that quick intuition which is like
second-sight in its sensitiveness to apprehend and respond to external
stimulus. But it is not the purely imaginative poems in this volume
that most deeply interest us. We come upon experience of life in
these pages; not in the ordinary sense, however, of outward activity
and movement, but in the hidden undercurrent of being. "The epochs
of our life are not in the visible facts, but in the silent thoughts
by the wayside as we walk." This is the motto, drawn from Emerson,
which she chooses for her poem of "Epochs," which marks a pivotal
moment in her life. Difficult to analyze, difficult above all to
convey, if we would not encroach upon the domain of private and
personal experience, is the drift of this poem, or rather cycle of
poems, that ring throughout with a deeper accent and a more direct
appeal than has yet made itself felt. It is the drama of the human
soul,--"the mystic winged and flickering butterfly," "flitting
between earth and sky," in its passage from birth to death.

A golden morning of June! "Sweet empty sky without a stain."
Sunlight and mist and "ripple of rain-fed rills." "A murmur and a
singing manifold."


"What simple things be these the soul to raise
To bounding joy, and make young pulses beat
With nameless pleasure, finding life so sweet!"


Such is youth, a June day, fair and fresh and tender with dreams and
longing and vague desire. The morn lingers and passes, but the noon