Travellers have told that in the Java isles
      The upas-tree breathes its dread vapor out
      Into the air; there needs no hand about
    Its branches for the poison’s deadly wiles
      To work a strong man’s hurt, for there is death
      Envenomed, noisome, in his every breath.

    So would I breathe thy poison in my soul,
      Till all that had been wholesome, pure, and true
      Shewed its decay, and stained and wasted grew. 
    Though sundered as the distant Northern Pole
      From his far sister, I should bear thy blight
      Upon me as I passed into the night.

    Didst dream thy truth and honor meant so much
      To me, Dear Heart?  Oh!  I am full of tears
      To-night, of longing, love and foolish fears. 
    Would I might see thee, know thy tender touch,
      For Time is long, and though I may not will
      To question Fate, I am a woman still.

Battle Song.

    Clear sounds the call on high: 
    “To arms and victory!”
    Brave hearts that win or die,
        Dying, may win;
    Proudly the banners wave,
    What though the goal’s the grave? 
    Death cannot harm the brave,—­
        Through death they win.

    Softly the evening hush
    Stilling strife’s maddened rush
    Cools the fierce battle flush,—­
        See the day die;
    A thousand faces white
    Mirror the cold moonlight
    And glassy eyes are bright
        With Victory.

Content.

    I have been wandering where the daisies grow,
      Great fields of tall, white daisies, and I saw
      Them bend reluctantly, and seem to draw
    Away in pride when the fresh breeze would blow
      From timothy and yellow buttercup,
      So by their fearless beauty lifted up.

    Yet must they bend at the strong breeze’s will,
      Bright, flawless things, whether in wrath he sweep
      Or, as oftimes, in mood caressing, creep
    Over the meadows and adown the hill. 
      So Love in sport or truth, as Fates allow,
      Blows over proud young hearts, and bids them bow.

    So beautiful is it to live, so sweet
      To hear the ripple of the bobolink,
      To smell the clover blossoms white and pink,
    To feel oneself far from the dusty street,
      From dusty souls, from all the flare and fret
      Of living, and the fever of regret.

    I have grown younger; I can scarce believe
      It is the same sad woman full of dreams
      Of seven short weeks ago, for now it seems
    I am a child again, and can deceive
      My soul with daisies, plucking one by one
      The petals dazzling in the noonday sun.

    Almost with old-time eagerness I try
      My fate, and say:  “un peu,” a soft “beaucoup,”
      Then, lower, “passionement, pas du tout;”
    Quick the white petals fall, and lovingly
      I pluck the last, and drop with tender touch
      The knowing daisy, for he loves me “much.”