EDWARD A. RALEIGH.
Cornell Magazine.

A Lost Memory.

Listening in the twilight, very long ago,
To a sweet voice singing very soft and low.

Was the song a ballad of a lady fair,
Saved from deadly peril by a bold corsair,

Or a song of battle and a flying foe? 
Nay, I have forgotten, ’tis so long ago.

Scarcely half remembered, more than half forgot,
I can only tell you what the song was not.

Memory, unfaithful, has not kept that strain,
Heard once in the twilight, never heard again.

Every day brings twilight, but no twilight brings
To my ear that music on its quiet wings.

After autumn sunsets, in the dreaming light,
When long summer evenings deepen into night,

All that I am sure of, is that, long ago,
Some one sang at twilight, very sweet and low.

PHILIP C. PECK.
Yale Literary Magazine.

The Truth-Seekers.

They who sought Truth since dawn
    And sought in vain,
  Now, at the close of day. 
Come with slow step and faces drawn
    With nameless pain,
  To meet the night half-way.

“She whom we love is not! 
    Of her no sight
  Had we, nor faintest trace!”
“Nay, here am I ye sought!”—­
    Beyond the night
  They met her, face to face.

FRANCIS CHARLES MCDONALD.
Nassau Literary Monthly.

To-morrow.

There is a day which never comes
  To light the morning sky,
But in our thoughts alone it lives,
  And there may never die;
It holds our hopes of future bliss,
  Our aspirations high,
And life itself is but a point
  In that eternity—­
                       To-morrow.

Each sunset brings us nearer that
  Which earth shall not behold,
Where, far away beyond the hills
  And through the clouds of gold,
We see a glimpse of brighter hours
  Than tongue of bard has told,
When marks of time will be effaced,
  When men will not grow old—­
                       To-morrow.

WILBUR DANIEL SPENCER.
Dartmouth Literary Monthly.

From My Window.

I sit within my little room
  And see the world pass by,
The merry, youthful, thoughtless world,
  That knows not I am I.

I watch it from my window ledge
  Below me, at its play—­
It makes an end of foolish things,
  And thinks the sad ones gay.

And there above I sit, alone,
  Behind my curtains long,
And I but peep, and mock a bit,
  And sing a bit of song.

EDITH THEODORA AMES.
Smith College Monthly.

To a Friend.

Your eyes are—­but I cannot tell
  Just what’s the color of your eyes,
I only know therein doth dwell
  A something that can sympathize,
When selfish love would fail to see
The depths revealed alone to me.