Words of a Young Poet.

What! bitter mistress, must I give today,
Forswear the earthways where my feet would stray
In careless wanderings?
See where the green leaves prick the halcyon blue,
And waves wind-whipped to foam unceasing woo
The soft and virginal sand!
Is it not meet that I, a neophyte,
Should gather wealth of beauty such as might
Be given from me to you?
You hide your solace. Flowers ungarlanded
To you are as the clouds that last night fled
Across the moon—wind-spent.
So must I clip my beauties, lace them trim
And fashion filigree to match your whim,
Not mine! I merely serve.
This workroom! Here the zephyrs drift and fall
And will not stay.
The sun is but a glimmer on the wall,
And I have given to–day.

—E. W.