And long for news!

I seem to see them in battle-line--
Heroes with hearts of gold,
But of their victory a sign
The Fates withhold;

And the hours too tardy-footed pass,
The voiceless hush grows dense
'Mid the imaginings, alas!
That feed suspense.

Oh, might I lie on the wind, or fly
In the wilful sea-bird's track,
Would I hurry on, with a homesick cry--
Or hasten back?

_Florence Earle Coates_




THE ANVIL


Burned from the ore's rejected dross,
The iron whitens in the heat.
With plangent strokes of pain and loss
The hammers on the iron beat.
Searched by the fire, through death and dole