Wind of the East,
  Wind of the sunrise seas,
  Wind of the clinging mists and gray, harsh rains—­
  Blow moist and chill across the wastes of brine,
  And shut the sun out, and the moon and stars,
  And lash the boughs against the dripping eaves,
  Yet keep thou from my love.

  But thou, sweet wind! 
  Wind of the fragrant South,
  Wind from the bowers of jasmine and of rose—­
  Over magnolia glooms and lilied lakes
  And flowering forests come with dewy wings,
  And stir the petals at her feet, and kiss
  The low mound where she lies.

C.H.  LUeDERS.

The Return.

  Now at last I am at home—­
    Wind abeam and flooding tide,
  And the offing white with foam,
    And an old friend by my side
    Glad the long, green waves to ride.

  Strange how we’ve been wandering
    Through the crowded towns for gain,
  You and I who loved the sting
    Of the salt spray and the rain
    And the gale across the main!

  What world honors could avail
    Loss of this—­the slanted mast,
  And the roaring round the rail,
    And the sheeted spray we cast
    Round us as we seaward passed?

  As the sad land sinks apace,
    With it sinks each thought of care;
  Think not now of aging face;
    Question not the whitening hair: 
    Youth still beckons everywhere.

  And the light we thought had fled
    From the sky-line glows there now;
  Bends the same blue overhead;
    And the waves we used to plow
    Part in beryl at the bow.

  Hours like this we two have known
    In the old days, when we sailed
  Seaward ere the night had flown,
    Or the morning star had paled
    Like the shy eyes love has veiled.

  Round our bow the ripples purled,
    As the swift tide outward streamed
  Through a hushed and ghostly world,
    Where our harbor reaches seemed
    Like a river that we dreamed.

  Then we saw the black hills sway
    In the waters’ crinkled glass,
  And the village wan and gray,
    And the startled cattle pass
    Through the tangled meadow-grass.

  Through the glooming we have run
    Straight into the gates of day,
  Seen the crimson-edged sun
    Burn the sea’s gray bound away—­
    Leap to universal sway.

  Little cared we where we drove
    So the wind was strong and keen. 
  Oh, what sun-crowned waves we clove! 
    What cool shadows lurked between
    Those long combers pale and green!

  Graybeard pleasures are but toys;
    Sorrow shatters them at last: 
  For this brief hour we are boys;
    Trim the sheet and face the blast;
    Sail into the happy past!

L.F.  TOOKER.

Bereaved.

  Let me come in where you sit weeping,—­aye,
      Let me, who have not any child to die,
  Weep with you for the little one whose love
      I have known nothing of.