Bread and Wine.

All day work in the shops,
  The weary tread
Of toil that knows no change. 
  And this is bread.

At night when work is done,
  Her hand in mine,
The hope of happier days,
  And this is wine.

ELIZABETH REEVE CUTTER.
Smith College Monthly.

A Song.

This I learned from the birds,
        Dear heart,
And they told me in woodland words,
        Apart,
    And they told me true,
That all their singing the summer through
    Was of you, of you.

This I learned from the flowers,
        Dear heart,
In the dewy morning hours
        Apart,
    And they sware it, too,
That all their sweetness the summer through
    Was for you, for you.

This I learned from the leaves,
        Dear heart,
On stilly, starry eves
        Apart,
    Though their words were few,
That all their sighing the summer through
    Was for you, for you.

This I learned from the stars,
        Dear heart,—­
From the Seven Sisters, and Mars,
        Apart
    In the boundless blue,—­
That their light the lingering summer through
    Was for you, for you.

This I learned from my life,
        Dear heart,
’Mid its storms, and stress, and strife,
        Apart,
    (God knows it’s true!)
That I need to love me my long way through,
    Only you, dear, you.

FRANCIS CHARLES MCDONALD.
Nassau Literary Monthly.

Drifting.

Drifting in our frail canoe
On the dusky, silent stream,
Dearest, see!  The sunset-gleam
Fires love’s torch for me and you.

Coral clouds and pearly sky,
Flaming in the farthest west,
Softly whisper peace and rest,
Peace and rest that never die.

Let us shun the sable shore,
Frowning at us slipping by. 
Let’s be happy, you and I,
Drifting, drifting evermore.

H. H. CHAMBERLIN, JR.
Harvard Advocate.

Cloudland.

Over the hills, at the close of day,
  Gazing with listless-seeming eyes,
Margery watches them sail away,
  The sunlit clouds of the western skies.

Margery sighs with a vain regret,
  As slowly they fade from gold to gray,
Till night has come, and the sun has set,
  And the clouds have drifted beyond the day.

What are you dreaming, my little maid
  For yours are beautiful thoughts, I know;
What were the words that the wild wind said,
  And where, in the dark, did the cloud-ships go?

Come through the window and touch her hair,
  Wind of the vast and starry deep! 
And tell her not of this old world’s care,
  But kiss her softly and let her sleep.

Columbia Literary Monthly.

Two of a Kind.

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