But ah!  To-night a summons came,
Signed with a teardrop for a name,—­
For as I wondering kissed it, lo,
A line beneath it told me so.

And now the moon hangs over me
A disk of dazzling brilliancy,
And every star-tip stabs my sight
With splintered glitterings of light!

[Illustration:  (LAST NIGHT AND THIS—­TAILPIECE)]

[Illustration:  (A DISCOURAGING MODEL—­TITLE)]

A DISCOURAGING MODEL

Just the airiest, fairiest slip of a thing,
With a Gainsborough hat, like a butterfly’s wing,
Tilted up at one side with the jauntiest air,
And a knot of red roses sown in under there
    Where the shadows are lost in her hair.

Then a cameo face, carven in on a ground
Of that shadowy hair where the roses are wound;
And the gleam of a smile O as fair and as faint
And as sweet as the masters of old used to paint
    Round the lips of their favorite saint!

And that lace at her throat—­and the fluttering hands
Snowing there, with a grace that no art understands
The flakes of their touches—­first fluttering at
The bow—­then the roses—­the hair—­and then that
    Little tilt of the Gainsborough hat.

What artist on earth, with a model like this,
Holding not on his palette the tint of a kiss,
Nor a pigment to hint of the hue of her hair,
Nor the gold of her smile—­O what artist could dare
    To expect a result half so fair?

[Illustration:  (A CAMEO FACE)]

SUSPENSE

A woman’s figure, on a ground of night
  Inlaid with sallow stars that dimly stare
  Down in the lonesome eyes, uplifted there
As in vague hope some alien lance of light
Might pierce their woe.  The tears that blind her sight—­
   The salt and bitter blood of her despair—­
   Her hands toss back through torrents of her hair
And grip toward God with anguish infinite. 
   And O the carven mouth, with all its great
Intensity of longing frozen fast
   In such a smile as well may designate
The slowly murdered heart, that, to the last
   Conceals each newer wound, and back at Fate
Throbs Love’s eternal lie—­“Lo, I can wait!”

[Illustration:  (SUSPENSE)]

[Illustration:  (TOM VAN ARDEN—­TITLE)]

TOM VAN ARDEN

Tom Van Arden, my old friend,
  Our warm fellowship is one
Far too old to comprehend
  Where its bond was first begun: 
    Mirage-like before my gaze
    Gleams a land of other days,
    Where two truant boys, astray,
    Dream their lazy lives away.

There’s a vision, in the guise
  Of Midsummer, where the Past
Like a weary beggar lies
  In the shadow Time has cast;
    And as blends the bloom of trees
    With the drowsy hum of bees,
    Fragrant thoughts and murmurs blend,
    Tom Van Arden, my old friend.