Rest we here where none can spy us,
    Deep in rippling fields of grass;
  Scented winds blow softly by us,
    Lazy clouds above us pass;
  Higher yet my fancy soars—­
  All my soul is out of doors!

Literary Monthly, 1888.

[Footnote 1:  Copyright, 1907, by T.M.  Banks.  With permission.]

THE BACKWARD LOOK[1]

TALCOTT M. BANKS ’90

  Once on a bright October day,
    I took the road whose winding track
  Leads up among the hills away
    Across Taconic’s shaggy back,
  Leaving the valley broad and fair
  For barren heights in upper air.

  At last I stood upon the crest;
    The ruddy sun was sinking low,
  And all the country to the west
    Lay flooded with a golden glow—­
  A fairyland of misty light,
  Unsullied by the touch of night.

  I turned, and lo, a sudden change
    Had swept across the valley’s face. 
  The shadow of Taconic’s range
    Had fallen on the lovely place;
  And darkness followed thick and fast
  Behind the shadow as it passed.

  Since then the changeful years have flown
    Till now once more I seem to stand
  Upon the mountain top alone,
    And look abroad upon the land. 
  But all before is gray and dim,
  Half-hidden in the cloud-wrack grim;
    While in the Berkshire valley stays
    The light that dawned in happier days.

Literary Monthly, 1893.

[Footnote 1:  Copyright, 1907, by T.M.  Banks.  With permission.]

SERENADE

ARTHUR OLIVER ’93

  If all the stars were gems, love,
    And all those gems were mine,
  I’d give them in exchange, love,
    For that dear heart of thine. 
  But, since the stars so bright, love,
    Are neither gems nor mine,
  What can I do, but sigh and rue
    My luckless lot, and pine,
  And gaze on high, where night winds sigh,
    Across thy lattice vine?

  If all the little birds, love,
    That twitter ’mid the dew,
  Could sing in words and tell, love,
    The love I bear to you,
  They would not end their song, love,
    The night’s long vigil through;
  But all the wings that morning brings
    Would soar amid the blue,
  And float along on waves of song,
    With carols sweet and new.

Literary Monthly, 1893.

OLD TRINITY

FREDERICK D. GOODWIN ’95

  Placed ’midst the city’s busiest life,
  Not a stone’s throw from the deadly strife
    Of the metropolitan mart,
  Old Trinity stands; her spire, like a hand,
  Points ever upward; her chimes demand
    From the hardened world a heart.

  Clustered around her, buried, lie
  Many whose names can never die,
    Founders of their country’s weal: 
  Patriot churchmen, statesmen, soldiers,
  There they sleep who were its moulders;
    Sculptured stones their deeds reveal.