She smiled back on him and her hand in his
  Thrilled with a touch that maddened through his veins;
  He bent down over her and all his soul
  Slid through his lips in one long burning kiss
  Which lovers only know.

          Lo, Cybele,
  Her chariot, lion-drawn, grinding the sands,
  Stood awfully before them.  Not a word
  Came from her lips, but her great angry eyes
  Dark with the wrath and vengeance of the gods
  Gloomed forth a hate no mortal could endure;
  Pale Attis looked in them but once, and then
  In frenzied madness fled along the shore.

Quarterly, 1871.

COLLEGE FRIENDSHIPS

CHARLES CUTHBERT HALL ’72[1]

  My other self, my bosom friend,
  Thy faithful arm in mine enwinding,
  Let us fare forth amid the trees,
  Each in the other comfort finding. 
    For though our boyhood be so near,
    Yet have we tasted grief and fear.

  I feel upon my heart the weight
  Of things unknown, the dread of living,
  And thou, dear friend, canst strengthen me
  By thy heart’s wondrous gift of giving;
    So, when life’s strangeness frighteneth me,
    In perfect trust I turn to thee.

  Thou dost not scorn my foolish fear,
  Nor e’er upbraid my dreamy thinking;
  Thou dost not brand me with contempt
  Because of all my frequent shrinking. 
    Thou art a tower of strength to me,
    So let me walk awhile with thee.

  Not all our hours are hours of dread: 
  We know the hours of splendid hoping;
  When life’s ongoing ways shine clear,
  And vision takes the place of groping;
    In those Great Hours I seek for thee
    To walk amid the trees with me.

  How hath God made our lives as one,
  Knitting our fortunes up together
  In comradeship that welcometh
  The clearing or the lowering weather—­
    The joy or pain—­heart answering heart! 
    Are we not friends till Death us part?

  Then mount with me the rugged hill
  And let our thoughts go seaward soaring,
  Until in fancy’s ear there sound
  The chime of surf, the tempest’s roaring;
    And, by the sun-glint on the sea,
    We trace the years that are to be.

  My other self, why bound by death
  The compass of our friendship’s reaching? 
  Why doubt the promptings of our hearts,
  Or falsify our spirits’ teaching? 
    Must not the friends beneath the sod
    Still walk amid the trees of God?

1903.

Literary Monthly, 1909

[Footnote 1:  Died 1908.]

LORRAINE—­1870

ANON.

I

  Sweetly the June-time twilights wane
  Over the hills of fair Lorraine,