[The following selections are copyrighted, and are reprinted by permission of the author, and Houghton, Mifflin & Co., publishers.]

     DESTINY

     Three roses, wan as moonlight, and weighed down
     Each with its loveliness as with a crown,
     Drooped in a florist’s window in a town.

     The first a lover bought.  It lay at rest,
     Like flower on flower, that night, on Beauty’s breast.

     The second rose, as virginal and fair,
     Shrunk in the tangles of a harlot’s hair.

     The third, a widow, with new grief made wild,
     Shut in the icy palm of her dead child.

     IDENTITY

     Somewhere—­in desolate wind-swept space—­
       In Twilight-land—­in No-man’s land—­
     Two hurrying Shapes met face to face,
       And bade each other stand.

     “And who are you?” cried one, agape,
       Shuddering in the gloaming light. 
     “I know not,” said the second Shape,
       “I only died last night!”

     PRESCIENCE

     The new moon hung in the sky, the sun was low in the west,
     And my betrothed and I in the churchyard paused to rest—­
       Happy maiden and lover, dreaming the old dream over: 
     The light winds wandered by, and robins chirped from the nest.

     And lo! in the meadow sweet was the grave of a little child,
     With a crumbling stone at the feet and the ivy running wild—­
       Tangled ivy and clover folding it over and over: 
     Close to my sweetheart’s feet was the little mound up-piled.

     Stricken with nameless fears, she shrank and clung to me,
     And her eyes were filled with tears for a sorrow I did not see: 
       Lightly the winds were blowing, softly her tears were flowing—­
     Tears for the unknown years and a sorrow that was to be!

     ALEC YEATON’S SON

     GLOUCESTER, AUGUST, 1720

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     The wind it wailed, the wind it moaned,
       And the white caps flecked the sea;
     “An’ I would to God,” the skipper groaned,
       “I had not my boy with me!”

     Snug in the stern-sheets, little John
       Laughed as the scud swept by;
     But the skipper’s sunburnt cheek grew wan
       As he watched the wicked sky.

     “Would he were at his mother’s side!”
       And the skipper’s eyes were dim. 
     “Good Lord in heaven, if ill betide,
       What would become of him!

     “For me—­my muscles are as steel,
       For me let hap what may;
     I might make shift upon the keel
       Until the break o’ day.

     “But he, he is so weak and small,
       So young, scarce learned to stand—­
     O pitying Father of us all,
       I trust him in thy hand!

     “For thou who markest from on high
       A sparrow’s fall—­each one!—­
     Surely, O Lord, thou’lt have an eye
       On Alec Yeaton’s son!”