ill out-step him across the floor--
What matters the great white loneliness
When we bar the cabin door?

THE CLIMBER

He stood alone on Fame's high mountain top,
His hands at rest, his forehead bound with bay;
And yet he watched with eyes unsatisfied
The downward winding way.

The great procession of the stars went by
Far overhead, beyond the mountain's rim,
But the unconquered worlds of time and space,
As nothing were to him.

There from his vantage ground, so still and high,
He watched the storm clouds when they rolled below,
And felt the wind mount up to where he stood
Amid eternal snow.

And sometimes in the valleys and the plains
He saw the little children at their play;
In cottage homes he saw the candle-light
Gleam out at close of day.

But he and loneliness kept feast and fast,
The while with weary eyes, by night and day;
They watched the path that led to common things--
The downward winding way.

"'Twas there," he said, "that gladness passed me by,
In yonder valley, where I sought the truth;
And there, a few leagues up the rocky slope,
I said good-bye to Youth.

"There, where the pine trees catch the sun's last gold,
Love reached its hands to me and bade me stop;
Oh, madness of the ones who climb," he said,
"Up to the mountain top!"

THE DAISY

An angel found a daisy where it lay
On Heaven's highroad of transparent gold,
And, turning to one near, he said, "I pray,
Tell me what manner of strange bloom I hold.
You came a long, long way--perchance you know
In what far country such fair flowers blow?"

Then spoke the other: "Turn thy radiant face
And gaze with me down purple depth of space.
See, where the stars lie spilled upon the night,
Like amber beads that hold a yellow light.
Note one that burns with faint yet steady glow;
It is the Earth--and there these blossoms grow.
Some little child from that dear, distant land
Hath borne this hither in his dimpled hand."

Still gazed he down. "Ah, friend," he said, "I, too,
Oft crossed the fields at home where daisies grew."

THE VISION

Long had she knelt at the Madonna's shrine,
With the empty chapel, cold and grey,
Telling her beads, while grief with marring line
And bitter tear stole all her youth away.

Outcast was she from what Life holdeth dear;
Banished from joy that other souls might win;
And from the dark beyond she turned with fear,
Being so brande