SYDNEY DOBELL

Of palmed praying hands that meet and yearn Yearn to the impleaded skies for thy return. Day, like a golden fetter, locks them in, And wans the light that withers, tho' it burn

As warmly still for thy return ; Still thro* the splendid load uplifts the thin Pale, paler, palest patience that can learn Naught but that votive sign for thy return That single suppliant sign for thy return, Return, return.

Return, return ! lest haply, love, or e'er Thou touch the lamp the light have ceased to burn, And thou, who thro' the window didst discern The wonted flame, shalt reach the topmost stair

To find no wide eyes watching there, No wither'd welcome waiting thy return ! A passing ghost, a smoke-wreath in the air, The flameless ashes, and the soulless urn, Warm with the famish'd fire that lived to burn Burn out its lingering life for thy return, Its last of lingering life for thy return, Its last of lingering life to light thy late return, Return, return.

767. A Chanted Calendar

THIRST came the primrose,

• On the bank high,

Like a maiden looking forth From the window of a tower When the battle rolls below, So look'd she, And saw the storms go by.

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