pened last night to see
A woman's beautiful snow-white hand.

Like part of a statue broken away,
And carefully kept in a velvet case,
On the crimson rim of her box it lay;
The folds of the curtain hid her face.

Years had drifted between us two,
In another clime, in another land,
We had lived and parted, and yet I knew
That cruelly beautiful perfect hand.

The ringless beauty of fingers fine,
The sea-shell tint of their taper tips,
The sight of them stirred my blood like wine,
Oh, to hold them again to my lips!

To feel their tender touch on my hair,
Their mute caress, and their clinging hold;
Oh for the past that was green and fair,
With a cloudless sky, and a sun of gold!

But the sun has set, and a dead delight
Shadows my life with a dull despair,
Oh why did I see that hand of white,
Like a marble ornament lying there?

PRESENTIMENT

As unseen spheres cast shadows on the Earth
Some unknown cause depresses me to-night.
The house is full of laughter and sweet mirth,
The day has held but pleasure and delight.

Down in the parlour some one blithely sings;
A chime of laughter echoes in the hall;
But all unseen by other eyes, strange things
Rat-like do seem to glide along the wall.

I rise, and laugh, and say I will not care;
I call them idle fancies, one and all.
And yet, suspended by a single hair,
The sword of Fate seems trembling soon to fall.

I leave the house, and walk the lighted street;
And mingle with the pleasure-seeking throng.
And close behind me follow spectre feet
That pause with me, or with me move along.

I seek my room, and close and bolt the door;
I draw the curtain, and turn up the light;
But close beside me, closer than before,
This nameless _something_ stands, but out of sight.

Ye mystic messenger of woe to come,
Ye nameless nothing called 'Presentiment,'
Take form and face me; be no longer dumb,
But tell who thou art, and wherefore sent.

TWO ROOMS

One room is full of luxury, and dim
With that soft moonlit radiance of light
That she best loves, who sits and dreams of him
Her heart has crowned as knight.

And one is bare, and comfortless, and dim
With that strange, fitful glimmer that is shed
By candles casting shadows weird and grim,
Above the sheeted dead.

In one, a round and beautiful young face
Is full of wordless rapture; and so fair
You know her breast is jo