R.W.  GILDER.

The Flight.

  Upon a cloud among the stars we stood. 
    The angel raised his hand and looked and said,
    “Which world, of all yon starry myriad
  Shall we make wing to?” The still solitude
  Became a harp whereon his voice and mood
    Made spheral music round his haloed head. 
    I spake—­for then I had not long been dead—­
  “Let me look round upon the vasts, and brood
  A moment on these orbs ere I decide ... 
    What is yon lower star that beauteous shines
    And with soft splendor now incarnadines
  Our wings?—­There would I go and there abide.” 
    He smiled as one who some child’s thought divines: 
    “That is the world where yesternight you died.”

L. MIFFLIN.

Childhood.

  Old Sorrow I shall meet again,
    And Joy, perchance—­but never, never,
  Happy Childhood, shall we twain
    See each other’s face forever!

  And yet I would not call thee back,
    Dear Childhood, lest the sight of me,
  Thine old companion, on the rack
    Of Age, should sadden even thee.

J.B.  TABB.

Little Boy Blue.[10]

  The little toy dog is covered with dust,
    But sturdy and stanch he stands;
  And the little toy soldier is red with rust,
    And his musket moulds in his hands. 
  Time was when the little toy dog was new
    And the soldier was passing fair,
  And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
    Kissed them and put them there.

  “Now, don’t you go till I come,” he said,
    “And don’t you make any noise!”
  So toddling off to his trundle-bed
    He dreampt of the pretty toys. 
  And as he was dreaming, an angel song
    Awakened our Little Boy Blue,—­
  Oh, the years are many, the years are long,
    But the little toy friends are true.

  Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
    Each in the same old place,
  Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
    The smile of a little face. 
  And they wonder, as waiting these long years through,
    In the dust of that little chair,
  What has become of our Little Boy Blue
    Since he kissed them and put them there.

E. FIELD.

[10] From “A Little Book of Western Verse,” copyright, 1889, by Eugene Field, published by Charles Scribner’s Sons.

Strong as Death.[11]

  O death, when thou shalt come to me
    From out thy dark, where she is now,
  Come not with graveyard smell on thee,
    Or withered roses on thy brow.

  Come not, O Death, with hollow tone,
    And soundless step, and clammy hand—­
  Lo, I am now no less alone
    Than in thy desolate, doubtful land;

  But with that sweet and subtle scent
    That ever clung about her (such
  As with all things she brushed was blent);
    And with her quick and tender touch.