HENRY CHARLES BEECHING

Say, heart, is there aught like this In a world that is full of bliss ? 'Tis more than skating, bound Steel-shod to the level ground.

Speed slackens now, I float Awhile in my airy boat; Till, when the wheels scarce crawl, My feet to the treadles fall.

Alas, that the longest hill Must end in a vale ; but still, Who climbs with toil, wheresoever, Shall find wings waiting there.

��BLISS CARMAN

��TCOR a name unknown,

• Whose fame unblown

Sleeps in the hills For ever and aye;

For her who hears The stir of the years Go by on the wind By night and day ;

And heeds no thing Of the needs of spring, Of autumn's wonder Or winter's chill;

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