She told me of her garden, all the flowers,
  Of hallowed lilies and the glories bright,
  Frail tinted cups filled with the morning’s light;
  The primrose drooping for the evening hours. 
  She spoke of hedges, hawthorns, and the powers
  Of weeds and frost in April, and the blight
  Of birds and children; prayed her blossoms might
  Not so allure them to her paths and bowers. 
  And I turned silently upon my way,
  And sought His untrod forests and the hills,
  My free companions of no guile nor art—­
  Their holy strength is more than rocks and clay;
  I sought the comfort loneliness instills: 
  Dear Christ!  She spoke her own vain, selfish heart.

Literary Monthly, 1910.

NOCTURNE

WILLARD ANSLEY GIBSON ’08

  Over the hills
  Softly the slumber light
  Seems to me creeping,
  Stealing with twilight,
  While the world sleeping
  Breathes in the lower light
  Prayers for its loved ones
  Over the hills.

      Stars watch, and the fire glows,
      Fading it goes, fainter it glows,
      Lips of vain speaking silently close—­
      The breath comes, but the breath goes.

  Some mothers stifled lie,
  Sobbing till life is gone;
  Some fathers bitter die
  In their remorse ere dawn;

      Stars watch, and the fire glows—­
      Something comes, something goes.

  Far in the night
  Beckon the locust trees,
  Whispering, calling,
  And from their drooping leaves
  White blossoms falling
  Float on a magic breeze,
  Far in a phantom world,
  Far in the night.

      Clocks chime and the night goes,
      Slowly it goes, brighter it grows,
      Tired hands folded rest in repose—­
      The breath comes, but the breath goes.

  Some watchers on the hill
  Wide-eyed await the dawn;
  Some workers in the mill
  Wearying are toiling on;

      Clocks chime, and the night goes—­
      Slowly it lighter grows.

Literary Monthly, 1910.

THE HIDDEN FACE

BERNARD WESTERMANN ’08

  The moon hath a hidden face and fair,—­
    Never we gaze on its features calm;
  She gazeth afar on the star-lit air,
    On star-lighted regions whose breath is balm;
  But never, ah never, her glance doth show
  To the world of men in the deeps below.

  O love, do you know that there dwells in thee
    A hiddenest spirit that dreams alway,
  And never the world can her features see,
    Of the spirit that shunneth the earthly day? 
  Only I know that she lives, to rise
  Some day, some night, in your love-lit eyes.

Literary Monthly, 1906.

MODERN THOUGHT AND MEDIEVAL DOGMA