Songs" (1913) could be characterized as prophecy, by one in
whom seemed inherent the fatal instinct of the predestined. He sought
for "Song to lead her way above the crags of wrong," and he gave

"Such music as a bird
Gives of its soul when dying
Unconscious if it's heard!"
And so he went, singing, to his "Islands of Infinity."

ROSE DE VAUX-ROYER.

* * * * *

This edition is called the Friendship Edition, as it carries in its
significance a testimonial of love and admiration for the author,
extended by those who wish his last collected poems preserved for
futurity.

Acknowledgment is due W. D. Howells, _The North American Review_, The
Macmillan Co., Clinton Scollard and Edwin Markham for their courtesy.

BROKEN MUSIC

(_IN MEMORIAM_)

_There it lies broken, as a shard,--
What breathed sweet music yesterday;
The source, all mute, has passed away
With its masked meanings still unmarred._

_But melody will never cease!
Above the vast cerulean sea
Of heaven, created harmony
Rings and re-echoes its release!_

_So, thin dumb instrument that lies
All powerless,--[with spirit flown,
Beyond the veil of the Unknown
To chant its love-hymned litanies,--]_

_Though it may thrill us here no more
With cadenced strain,--in other spheres
Will rise above the vanquished years
And breathe its music as before!_

[_Louisville Times_]

_Written December 7th, 1914._

_Rose de Vaux-Royer._

_The spirit of Madison Cawein passed at midnight from this world of
intimate beauty "To stand a handsbreadth nearer Heaven and what is
God!_"

MADISON CAWEIN

(1865-1914)

The wind makes moan, the water runneth chill;
I hear the nymphs go crying through the brake;
And roaming mournfully from hill to hill
The maenads all are silent for his sake!

He loved thy pipe, O wreathed and piping Pan!
So play'st thou sadly, lone within thine hollow;
He was thy blood, if ever mortal man,
Therefore thou weepest--even thou, Apollo!

But O, the grieving of the Little Things,
Above the pipe and lyre, throughout the woods!
The beating of a thousand airy wings,
The cry of all the fragile multitudes!

The moth flits desolate, the t