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And where away lies Arcady,
And how long yet may the journey be?

Ah, that (quoth he) I do not know:
Across the clover and the snow—
Across the frost, across the flowers—
Through summer seconds and winter hours,
I've trod the way my whole life long,
And know not now where it may be;
My guide is but the stir to song,
That tells me I cannot go wrong,
Or clear or dark the pathway be
Upon the road to Arcady.

But how shall I do who cannot sing?

I was wont to sing, once on a time,There is never an echo now to ring

Remembrance back to the trick of rhyme.

'Tis strange you cannot sing (quoth he),— The folk all sing in Arcady.

But how may he find Arcady

Who hath nor youth nor melody?

What, know you not, old man (quoth he),–
Your hair is white, your face is wise,-
That Love must kiss that Mortal's eyes

Who hopes to see fair Arcady?
No gold can buy you entrance there;
But beggared Love may go all bare—
No wisdom won with weariness;
But Love goes in with Folly's dress—
No fame that wit could ever win;
But only Love may lead Love in
To Arcady, to Arcady.

Ah, woe is me, through all my days

Wisdom and wealth I both have got,

And fame and name and great men's praise;

But Love, ah Love! I have it not.
There was a time, when life was new—
But far away, and half forgot―
I only know her eyes were blue;
But Love-I fear I knew it not.
We did not wed, for lack of gold,
And she is dead, and I am old.
All things have come since then to me,
Save Love, ah Love! and Arcady.

Ab, then I fear we part (quote he),—
My way's for Love and Arcady.

But you, you fare alone, like me;

The gray is likewise in your hair.

What Love have you to lead you there,

To Arcady, to Arcady?

Ah, no, not lonely do I fare;

My true companion's Memory.

With Love he fills the Spring-time air;
With Love he clothes the Winter tree.
Oh, past this poor horizon's bound

My song goes straight to one who stands,-
Her face all gladdening at the sound,-
To lead me to the Spring-green lands,

To wander with enlacing hands.
The songs within my breast that stir

Are all of her, are all of her,

My maid is dead long years (quoth he),

She waits for me in Arcady.

Oh, yon's the way to Arcady,
To Arcady, to Arcady;
Oh, yon's the way to Arcady,

Where all the leaves are merry.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1855- ) is a contributor to

the current magazines and a popular writer of verse.

WORTH WHILE1

'Tis easy enough to be pleasant

When life flows along like a song;

But the man worth while is the one who will smile

When everything goes dead wrong.

For the test of the heart is trouble,

And it always comes with the years,

And the smile that is worth the praise of earth
Is the smile that comes through tears.

It is easy enough to be prudent

When nothing tempts you to stray;
When without or within no voice of sin
Is luring your soul away.

But it's only a negative virtue

Until it is tried by fire,

And the life that is worth the honor of earth

Is the one that resists desire.

By the cynic, the sad, the fallen,

Who had no strength for the strife,
The world's highway is encumbered to-day;
They make up the item of life.

But the virtue that conquers passion

And the sorrow that hides in a smile—
It is these that are worth the homage of earth,
For we find them once in a while.

RECRIMINATION 2
I

Said Life to Death: "Methinks, if I were you,
I would not carry such an awesome face
To terrify the helpless human race;

1 Reprinted from Poems of Sentiment, by Ella Wheeler Wilcox, copyrighted 1892, 1906, by special permission of the publishers, The W. B. Conkey Company, Hammond, Ind.

2 Reprinted from Poems of Power, by Ella Wheeler Wilcox, copyrighted 1901, 1902, 1903, by special permission of the publishers, The W. B. Conkey Company, Hammond, Ind.

And if indeed those wondrous tales be true
Of happiness beyond, and if I knew
About the boasted blessings of that place,
I would not hide so miserly all trace
Of my vast knowledge, Death, if I were you:
But, like a glorious angel, I would lean
Above the pathway of each sorrowing soul,
Hope in my eyes, and comfort in my breath,
And strong conviction in my radiant mien,
The while I whispered of that beauteous goal.
This would I do if I were you, O Death."

II

Said Death to Life: "If I were you, my friend,
I would not lure confiding souls each day
With fair, false smiles to enter on a way
So filled with pain and trouble to the end;
I would not tempt those whom I should defend,
Nor stand unmoved and see them go astray;
Nor would I force unwilling souls to stay
Who longed for freedom, were I you, my friend:
But, like a tender mother, I would take
The weary world upon my sheltering breast,
And wipe away its tears, and soothe its strife;
I would fulfil my promises, and make
My children bless me as they sank to rest
Where now they curse-if I were you, O Life.”

III

Life made no answer, and Death spoke again:
"I would not woo from God's sweet nothingness
A soul to being, if I could not bless

And crown it with all joy. If unto men

My face seems awesome, tell me, Life, why then
Do they pursue me, mad for my caress,

Believing in my silence lies redress

For your loud falsehoods?" (so Death spoke again). "Oh, it is well for you I am not fair—

Well that I hide behind a voiceless tomb

The mighty secrets of the other place:

Else would you stand in impotent despair,

While unfledged souls straight from the mother's womb
Rushed to my arms and spat upon your face!"

12. George E. Woodberry (1855- ) is a graduate of Harvard. For many years he was professor of English literature at Columbia University. His verses show true poetic feeling.

THE CHILD

It was only the clinging touch
Of a child's hand in the street,
But it made the whole day sweet;
Caught, as he ran full-speed,

In my own stretched out to his need,
Caught, and saved from the fall,
As I held, for the moment's poise,
In my circling arms the whole boy's
Delicate slightness, warmëd mould;
Mine, for an instant mine,

The sweetest thing the heart can divine,
More precious than fame or gold,

The crown of many joys,

Lay in my breast, all mine.

I was nothing to him;

He neither looked up nor spoke;
I never saw his eyes;

He was gone ere my mind awoke
From the action's quick surprise
With vision blurred and dim.

You say I ask too much:
It was only the clinging touch
Of a child in a city street;

It hath made the whole day sweet.

AMERICA TO ENGLAND

Mother of nations, of them eldest we,
Well is it found, and happy for the state,

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