Glide in like shapes from fairy-land,
  Making a sudden mist in air
  Of fleecy veils and floating hair
  And white arms lifted.  Orient blood
  Runs in their veins, shines in their eyes. 
  And there, in this Eastern Paradise,
  Filled with the breath of sandal-wood,
  And Khoten musk, and aloes and myrrh,
  Sits Rose-in-Bloom on a silk divan,
  Sipping the wines of Astrakhan;
  And her Arab lover sits with her.
  That’s when the Sultan Shah-Zaman
  Goes to the city Ispahan.

Now, when I see an extra light, Flaming, flickering on the night From my neighbor’s casement opposite, I know as well as I know to pray, I know as well as a tongue can say, That the innocent Sultan Shah-Zaman Has gone to the city Isfahan.

T.B.  ALDRICH.

Night.

  Chaos, of old, was God’s dominion;
    ’Twas His beloved child, His own first-born;
    And He was aged ere the thought of morn
  Shook the sheer steeps of black Oblivion. 
  Then all the works of darkness being done
    Through countless aeons hopelessly forlorn,
    Out to the very utmost verge and bourn,
  God at the last, reluctant, made the sun. 
  He loved His darkness still, for it was old: 
    He grieved to see His eldest child take flight;
    And when His Fiat lux the death-knell tolled,
  As the doomed Darkness backward by Him rolled,
    He snatched a remnant flying into light
    And strewed it with the stars, and called it Night.

L. MIFFLIN.

He Made the Stars Also.

  Vast hollow voids, beyond the utmost reach
    Of suns, their legions withering at His nod,
    Died into day hearing the voice of God;
  And seas new made, immense and furious, each
  Plunged and rolled forward, feeling for a beach;
    He walked the waters with effulgence shod. 
    This being made, He yearned for worlds to make
  From other chaos out beyond our night—­
  For to create is still God’s prime delight. 
    The large moon, all alone, sailed her dark lake,
    And the first tides were moving to her might;
  Then Darkness trembled, and began to quake
    Big with the birth of stars, and when He spake
    A million worlds leapt into radiant light!

L. MIFFLIN.

The Sour Winds.

  Wind of the North,
  Wind of the Norland snows,
  Wind of the winnowed skies and sharp, clear stars—­
  Blow cold and keen across the naked hills,
  And crisp the lowland pools with crystal films,
  And blur the casement-squares with glittering ice,
  But go not near my love.

  Wind of the West,
  Wind of the few, far clouds,
  Wind of the gold and crimson sunset lands—­
  Blow fresh and pure across the peaks and plains,
  And broaden the blue spaces of the heavens,
  And sway the grasses and the mountain pines,
  But let my dear one rest.