A.A.  FIELDS.

The Future.

  What may we take into the vast Forever? 
      That marble door
  Admits no fruit of all our long endeavor,
      No fame-wreathed crown we wore,
      No garnered lore.

  What can we bear beyond the unknown portal? 
      No gold, no gains
  Of all our toiling:  in the life immortal
      No hoarded wealth remains,
      Nor gilds, nor stains.

  Naked from out that far abyss behind us
      We entered here: 
  No word came with our coming, to remind us
      What wondrous world was near,
      No hope, no fear.

  Into the silent, starless Night before us,
      Naked we glide: 
  No hand has mapped the constellations o’er us,
      No comrade at our side,
      No chart, no guide.

  Yet fearless toward that midnight, black and hollow,
      Our footsteps fare: 
  The beckoning of a Father’s hand we follow—­
      His love alone is there,
      No curse, no care.

E.R.  SILL.

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!

T.B.  ALDRICH.

In August.

  All the long August afternoon,
    The little drowsy stream
  Whispers a melancholy tune,
  As if it dreamed of June
    And whispered in its dream.

  The thistles show beyond the brook
    Dust on their down and bloom,
  And out of many a weed-grown nook
  The aster-flowers look
    With eyes of tender gloom.

  The silent orchard aisles are sweet
    With smell of ripening fruit. 
  Through the sere grass, in shy retreat,
  Flutter, at coming feet,
    The robins strange and mute.

  There is no wind to stir the leaves,
    The harsh leaves overhead;
  Only the querulous cricket grieves,
  And shrilling locust weaves
    A song of Summer dead.

W.D.  HOWELLS.

That Day You Came.

  Such special sweetness was about
    That day God sent you here,
  I knew the lavender was out,
    And it was mid of year.