_Nassau Literary Monthly._
~An Evening Song.~
O red, red clouds in the westering sky,
That are lit with a lamp of gold,
The hours are faint, they sleep, they die,
The stars are earthward rolled;
Make bright day's burial-place, make bright,
So it crimson-canopied be--
It dies, and Fancy out of the night
Comes down--comes down to me.
O red, red clouds with your glory gone,
That are ghostly shapes of gray.
My lady dreams by a moon-lit lawn,
Away from me--away;
Go down--go down from the sky, so the gleams
Of the moon shine over the sea,
And bring the thought of my lady's dreams
Over to me--to me.
ROBERT L. HUNGER.
_Yale Courant._
~Panacea ~
When life proves disappointing,
And sorrow seems anointing
Brows of care,
Take a brace and go a-sailing,
Either dolphin back or whaling,
Anywhere.
Fling your troubles to the breezes,
Where the salted Ocean sneezes
Spray your face--
Never mind the moments flying,
There'll be left of care and sighing,
Not a trace.
ANNIE NYHAN SCEIBNER.
_Wisconsin Aegis._
~The Dive.~
One moment, poised above the flashing blue,
The next I'm slipping, sliding through
The water, that caresses, yields, resists,
Wrapping my sight in cooling, gray-green mists.
Another moment, my body swirls, I rise,
Shaking the water from my blinded eyes,
And strike out strong, glad that I am alive,
To swim back to the gray old pile from which I dive.
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