Page:The college beautiful, and other poems.djvu/72

60 What is this marvel that is wrought Within our silent haunts of thought? We hail no ships of roseate shells; We catch no mermaid's bridal bells; No siren's song with yearning stirs The souls of drifting mariners. The world, alas ! hath waxed too wise To trust her cradle lullabies. And nevermore her feet may stand In moonlight glades of fairyland. Yet on the main whose gray heart beat Beneath the westward-sailing fleet That bore Columbus, 'neath the sun That shone on builded Babylon, Ourselves unto ourselves grow strange, Made conscious of our mortal change. We are the dream, and only we, 'Twixt the enduring sky and sea.

NDER the drifted snows, with weeping and holy rite, For a little maid's repose let the lonely bed be dight. Cold is the cradle cover our pitiful hands fold over The heart that had won repose or ever it knew delight.