SONG FROM AS YOU LIKE IT

UNDER the greenwood tree,

Who loves to lie with me,

And tune his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see

Who doth ambitions shun,
And loves to live i' the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,

And pleased with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

SHAKESPEARE

THE DESERTED HOUSE

LIFE and thought have gone away

Side by side,

Leaving door and windows wide: Careless tenants they!

All within is dark as night:
In the windows is no light;
And no murmur at the door,
So frequent on its hinge before.

Close the door, the shutters close,
Or through the windows we shall see
The nakedness and vacancy

Of the dark deserted house.

Come away: no more of mirth
Is here or merry-making sound.
The house was builded of the earth,
And shall fall again to ground.

Come away for Life and Thought
Here no longer dwell;

But in a city glorious

A great and distant city-have bought
A mansion incorruptible.

Would they could have stayed with us!

TENNYSON

A

LITTLE while a little love

The hour yet bears for thee and me, Who have not drawn the veil to see If still our heaven be lit above. Thou merely, at the day's last sigh,

Hast felt thy soul prolong the tone; And I have heard the night-wind cry, And deemed its speech mine own.

A little while, a little love

The scattering autumn hoards for us
Whose bower is not yet ruinous
Nor quite unleaved our songless grove.
Only across the shaken boughs

We hear the flood-tides seek the sea,
And deep in both our hearts they rouse
One wail for thee and me.

A little while a little love

May yet be ours who have not said
The word it makes our hearts afraid
To know that each is thinking of.
Not yet the end: be our lips dumb
In smiles a little season yet:
I'll tell thee when the end is come,
How we may best forget.

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI

22

GIVE

THE END OF IT

`IVE me your hand. The glimmering star we sought

Has vanished wholly. Truth is hard to find
In these fierce tournaments of mind and mind,
When thought leaps out to tilt with armèd thought,
And words are pierced and flung in angry sport.
We have forgotten why, forgotten how
We came to such rude cudgellings; and now
The brawl is everything, the end is naught.
Here sits no arbiter that reason knows;
And Wisdom cries, “Surrender and be mute !”
I have no better friend than you,-suppose
Your love should cool, as logic grows acute!
Give me your hand.

We will no more dispute.

What boon hath strife that it should make us foes?

E. CRACROFT LEFROY

THREE SEASONS

"A CUP for Hope!" she said,

In springtime ere the bloom was
old;

The crimson wine was poor and cold
By her mouth's richer red.

"A cup for Love!" how low

And soft the words; and all the while
Her blush was rippling with a smile,
Like summer after snow.

"A cup for Memory!"

Cold cup that one must drain alone:
While autumn winds are up and moan
Across the barren sea.

Hope, Memory, Love:

Hope for fair morn, and Love for day,
And Memory for the evening grey

And solitary dove.

CHRISTINA ROSSETTI