But without, the wind and the trackless sky,
And night at the gates where a soul would go!




ON THE FLY-LEAF OF THE RUBAIYAT

Deem not this book a creed, 't is but the cry
Of one who fears not death, yet would not die;
Who at the table feigns with sorry jest.
To love the wine the Master's hand has pressed,
The while he loves the absent Master best,--
The bitter cry of Love for love's reply!




IN AN ALBUM

Like the south-flying swallow the summer has flown,
Like a fast-falling star, from unknown to unknown
Life flashes and falters and fails from our sight,--
Good-night, friends, good-night.

Like home-coming swallows that seek the old eaves,
Like the buds that wait patient beneath the dead leaves,
Love shall sleep in our hearts till our hands meet again,
Till then, friends, till then!