Page

The Brothers

Geraldine

The Moated Manse

The Forester

My Lady of Verne

An Old Tale Re-told

The Water Witch

At Nineveh

How They Brought Aid to Bryan's Station

On the Jellico Spur of the Cumberlands

A Confession

Lilith

Content

Berrying

To a Pansy-Violet

Heart of my Heart

Witnesses

Wherefore

Pagan

"The Fathers of our Fathers"

"Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin"

Her Vivien Eyes

There was a Rose

The Artist

Poetry and Philosophy

"Quo Vadis"

To a Critic

FOREWORD.

And one, perchance, will read and sigh: "What aimless songs! Why will he sing Of nature that drags out her woe Through wind and rain, and sun, and snow, From miserable spring to spring?" Then put me by.

And one, perhaps, will read and say: "Why write of things across the sea; Of men and women, far and near, When we of things at home would hear-- Well, who would call this poetry?" Then toss away.

A hopeless task have we, meseems, At this late day; whom fate hath made Sad, bankrupt heirs of song; who, filled With kindred yearnings, try to build A tower like theirs, that will not fade, Out of our dreams.

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