What woman’s rights have crazed thee? 
      Would’st thou be
  A Winter Amazon, more fierce than he? 
    Can Summer birds thy shrew-heroics sing? 
  Wilt tend no more the daisies on the lea,
    Nor wake thy cowslips up on May morning?

  What, shall we brew us possets by the fire
  And let the wild rose shiver on the brier. 
    The cowslip tremble in the meadows chill,
  While thy unlovely battle-call wails higher
    And dusty squadrons charge adown the hill?

  It is too late; thou art no love of mine;
  I answer not this sigh, this kiss divine;
    The sunlight penitently streaming down
  Shines through the paling leaf like thinnest wine
    Quaff’d in the clear air of a mountain town.

  Farewell!  For old love’s sake I kiss thy hands;
  Go on thy way; away to other lands
    That love thee less, and need thee less than we;
  Pour out thy passion on some desert sands,
    Forget thy lover of the Northern Sea.

  Away with fond pretence; let winter come
  With snow that strikes the heaviest footfall dumb. 
    We know the worst, and face his rage with glee;
  And, though the world without be ne’er so glum,
    Sit by the hearth, and dream and talk—­of thee.

  Yes, come again with earliest April; stay,
  Thyself once more, through the fair time when day
    Clasps hand with day, through the brief hush of night—­
  A twilight bower of roses, where in play
    Dance little maidens through from light to light.

* * * * *

Birds of A feather.

[Lord HAWKE’s team of Cricketers were beaten at Manheim by the Philadelphians by eight wickets whereat the Philadelphia Ledger cockadoodles considerably.  The Britishers, however, won the return match somewhat easily.]

  The Yankee Eagle well might squeal and squawk
  At having licked the British bird (Lord) Hawke. 
  But when that Hawke his brood had “pulled together,”
  That Eagle found it yet might “moult a feather.” 
  Go it, ye friendly-fighting fowls!  But know
  ’Tis only “Roosters” who o’er conquest crow!

* * * * *

HOME SWEET HOME!

(BY ONE WHO BELIEVES THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE IT.)

[Illustration]

  Sweet to return (for home the Briton hankers,
    After an exile of two months or so,
  Swiss or Italian).  Sweet—­to find your Banker’s
      Balance getting low.

  Sweet to return from Como or Sorrento. 
    Meshed in their shimmering net of drowsy sheen,
  Into a climate that you know not when to
      Really call serene.

  Sweet to return from hostelries whose waiters
    Rush to fulfil your slightest word or whim,
  Back to a cook who passionately caters
      Not for you, but him.