Stretch your arms. She will not come.
Stopped forever is the train,
And the music-box is dumb.

Some one touched it soft, apart,
Where the silence is her name.
And what sinking of the heart
At the plaintive note that came!

Ah, the anguish! when the tomb
Robs the cradle; when bereft
We discover in the gloom
Child toys that an angel left.

AFTER WRITING MY DRAMATIC REVIEW

My columns are ranged and steady,
Upbearing, though sad forespent,
The newspaper pediment,
And my review is ready.

Now for a week, poetaster,
My door is bolted. Away,
Thou still-born masterpiece,--aye,
Till Monday I am my master.

No melodrama shall whiten
My labour with threadbare leaves.
The warp that my fancy weaves
With silken flowers shall brighten.

Brief moment my spirit's warder,
Ye voices of soul that float,
I'll hearken your sorrow's note,
Nor verses evoke to order.

Then deep in my glass regaining
The health of a day gone by,--
Old visions for company--
The bloom of my vintage draining,

The wine of my thought I'll measure,
Wine virgin of alien glow,
Grapes trodden by life, that flow
From my heart at my heart's own pleasure!

THE CASTLE OF REMEMBRANCE

Before my hearth with head low-bowed
I dream, and strive to reach again,
Across the misty past's gray cloud,
Unto Remembrance's domain,

Where tree and house and upland way
Are blurred and blue like passing ghosts,
And the eye, ponder though it may,
Consults in vain the guiding-posts.

Now gropingly to gain a sight
Of all the buried world, I press
Through mystic marge of shade and light
And limbo of forgetfulness.

But white, diaphanous Memory stands,
Where many roadways meet and spread,
Like Ariadne, in my hands
Thrusting her little ball of thread.

Henceforth the way is all secure.
The shrouded sun hath reappeared,
And o'er the trees with vision sure
I see the castle tower upreared.

Beneath the boughs where day grows dark
With shower on shower of leaves down-poured
The dear old path through moss and bark
Still lengthens far its narrow cord.

But creeping-plant and bramble-spray
Have wrought a net to daunt me now.
The stubborn branch I force away
Swings fiercely back to lash my brow.

I come upon the house at last.
No window lit with lamp or face,
No breath of smoke from gables vast,
To touch with life the mouldering place!

Bridges are crumbling. Moats are still,
And slimed with rank, green refuse-flowers,
And tortuous waves of