clasped in hand,
Good night--Good night.

The laughing waves are summer blue,
The bees hum in the sun's warm light;
But frosts of winter chill me through,
I shiver as I say Good night.
Good night--Good night.

How often at the close of day
With smiling lips we've said those words:
And listened as we turned away
To hear them echoed by the birds,
Good night--Good night.

We did not dream then of this hour,
This sad, sad hour for you and me;
We did not dream there was a power
Could force us for eternity
To say Good night.

Good night--nay, turn your eyes away;
I cannot bear their tender light.
Now evermore to golden day,
To golden hope, a last Good night,
Good night--Good night.

NO PLACE

When days grow long, and brain and hands grow weary,
And hot the city street,
Forth to the haunts, by cooling winds made cheery
We fly with willing feet.

We leave our cares and labours all behind us,
The city's noise and din,
And, hid securely where they cannot find us,
We drink the sunshine in.

But when the days grow long with bitter sorrow,
And hearts grow sick with woe,
Where are the haunts that we may seek to-morrow?
Where can we hide or go?

Holds earth no nook, where hearts with sorrow breaking,
May find a summer's rest?
A season's respite from the weary aching
That gnaws within the breast?

O God! if we could fly and leave behind us
Our crosses and our grief,
Could hide a season where they could not find us,
What infinite relief.

FOUND

Found--as I rushed through the great world's mart,
In a race for gold and a pleasure quest,
A passionate, throbbing human heart
Suddenly found in my breast.

I had always laughed at the foolish word;
I had said aloud in my boasting glee,
That never a heart in my bosom stirred,
That my _brain_ governed me.

I was proud with the sense of my might and power
'It is will, not heart that wins,' I said.
But I suddenly found one sad, strange hour
That the strength of my will had fled.

For up in my breast there rose supreme
A strong man's heart, and all on fire:
Drunk with the wine of a wild, sweet dream,
And tortured with desire.

It is tossed with hope, and fear, and doubt,
It is mad with the fever of love's unrest,
I wish to God I could pluck it out--
This heart I found in my breast.

A MAN'S REVERIE

How cold the old