Oh, yon’s the way to Arcady,
    To Arcady, to Arcady;
  Oh, yon’s the way to Arcady,
    Where all the leaves are merry.

H.C.  BUNNER.

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

Eve’s Daughter.

  I waited in the little sunny room: 
    The cool breeze waved the window-lace, at play,
  The white rose on the porch was all in bloom,
    And out upon the bay
  I watched the wheeling sea-birds go and come.

  “Such an old friend,—­she would not make me stay
    While she bound up her hair.”  I turned, and lo,
  Danae in her shower! and fit to slay
    All a man’s hoarded prudence at a blow: 
  Gold hair, that streamed away
    As round some nymph a sunlit fountain’s flow. 
    “She would not make me wait!”—­but well I know
  She took a good half-hour to loose and lay
    Those locks in dazzling disarrangement so!

E.R.  SILL.

On An Intaglio Head Of Minerva.

  Beneath the warrior’s helm, behold
    The flowing tresses of the woman! 
  Minerva, Pallas, what you will—­
    A winsome creature, Greek or Roman.

  Minerva?  No! ’tis some sly minx
    In cousin’s helmet masquerading;
  If not—­then Wisdom was a dame
    For sonnets and for serenading!

  I thought the goddess cold, austere,
    Not made for love’s despairs and blisses: 
  Did Pallas wear her hair like that? 
    Was Wisdom’s mouth so shaped for kisses?

  The Nightingale should be her bird,
    And not the Owl, big-eyed and solemn: 
  How very fresh she looks, and yet
    She’s older far than Trajan’s Column!

  The magic hand that carved this face,
    And set this vine-work round it running,
  Perhaps ere mighty Phidias wrought
    Had lost its subtle skill and cunning.

  Who was he?  Was he glad or sad,
    Who knew to carve in such a fashion? 
  Perchance he graved the dainty head
    For some brown girl that scorned his passion.

  Perchance, in some still garden-place,
    Where neither fount nor tree to-day is,
  He flung the jewel at the feet
    Of Phryne, or perhaps ’twas Lais.

  But he is dust; we may not know
    His happy or unhappy story: 
  Nameless, and dead these centuries,
    His work outlives him—­there’s his glory!

  Both man and jewel lay in earth
    Beneath a lava-buried city;
  The countless summers came and went
    With neither haste, nor hate, nor pity.