With the dim gold that lit her hair,
    Crown thyself, Death; let fall thy tread
  So light that I may dream her there,
    And turn upon my dying bed.

  And through my chilling veins shall flame
    My love, as though beneath her breath;
  And in her voice but call my name,
    And I will follow thee, O Death.

H.C.  BUNNER.

[11] From “The Poems of H.C.  Bunner,” copyright, 1884, 1892, 1896 by Charles Scribner’s Sons.

The White Jessamine.

  I knew she lay above me,
    Where the casement all the night
  Shone, softened with a phosphor glow
    Of sympathetic light,
  And that her fledgling spirit pure
    Was pluming fast for flight.

  Each tendril throbbed and quickened
    As I nightly climbed apace,
  And could scarce restrain the blossoms
    When, anear the destined place,
  Her gentle whisper thrilled me
    Ere I gazed upon her face.

  I waited, darkling, till the dawn
    Should touch me into bloom,
  While all my being panted
    To outpour its first perfume,
  When, lo! a paler flower than mine
    Had blossomed in the gloom!

J.B.  TABB.

The House of Death.

  Not a hand has lifted the latchet
    Since she went out of the door—­
  No footstep shall cross the threshold,
    Since she can come in no more.

  There is rust upon locks and hinges,
    And mold and blight on the walls,
  And silence faints in the chambers,
    And darkness waits in the halls—­

  Waits as all things have waited
    Since she went, that day of spring,
  Borne in her pallid splendor
    To dwell in the Court of the King: 

  With lilies on brow and bosom,
    With robes of silken sheen,
  And her wonderful, frozen beauty,
    The lilies and silk between.

  Red roses she left behind her,
    But they died long, long ago
  ’Twas the odorous ghost of a blossom
    That seemed through the dusk to glow.

  The garments she left mock the shadows
    With hints of womanly grace,
  And her image swims in the mirror
    That was so used to her face.

  The birds make insolent music
    Where the sunshine riots outside,
  And the winds are merry and wanton
    With the summer’s pomp and pride.

  But into this desolate mansion,
    Where Love has closed the door,
  Nor sunshine nor summer shall enter,
    Since she can come in no more.

L.C.  MOULTON.

A Tropical Morning at Sea.

  Sky in its lucent splendor lifted
    Higher than cloud can be;
  Air with no breath of earth to stain it,
    Pure on the perfect sea.

  Crests that touch and tilt each other,
    Jostling as they comb;
  Delicate crash of tinkling water,
    Broken in pearling foam.