gh the streets of the city, through the soft, sweet song.

She bade her singers be silent--silent they stood in awe;
She raised the gold from the window; she looked down and saw.
(She leaned and looked on the highway,
She looked down and saw.)

She saw men driven like cattle, she heard the woman's cry,
She saw the white-faced children toil, and the weaklings die.

She saw the bound and the beaten beneath her like shifting sands,
And--she dropped the cloth on her window with her own white hands,
(She shut out her people's crying
With her own white hands.)

As a child may turn from a picture that he may not understand,
She turned to fragrance and music,--to soft things and bland.

_If the Princess is blind to anguish, if the Princess is deaf to woe,_
_If the streets of her city may run with blood, and she not know,_
_Now theirs is the blame who have closed her in ease as in
folded wings,_
_Who have barred the doors and windows, what time her minstrel sings,_
_Lest her eyes look down on the highway,_
_And look on unlovely things._

YOUTH

What do they know of youth, who still are young?
They but the singers of a golden song
Who may not guess its worth or wonder--flung
Like largesse to the throng.
We only,--young no longer,--old so long
Before its harmonies, stand marvelling--
Oh! we who listen--never they who sing.

Not for itself is beauty, but for us
Who gaze upon it with all reverent eyes;
And youth which sheds its glory luminous,
Gives ever in this wise:--
Itself the joy it may not realise.
Only we know, who linger overlong
Youth that is made of beauty and of song.

THE EMPTY HOUSE

April will come to the quiet town
That I left long ago,
Scattering primroses up and down--
Row upon happy row.
(Oh, little green lane, will she come your way,
To a certain path I know?)

April will pause by cottage and gate
In the wild, sweet evening rain,
Where the garden borders run brown and straight,
To coax them to bloom again.
(Oh, little sad garden that once was gay,
Must she call to you all in vain?)

April will come to cottage and hill,
Laughing her lovers awake.
(Oh, little closed house, so cold and still,
Will she find you for old joy's sake,
And leave one primrose beside your d