POETRY.
REQUIEM.
A STRANGER told me you were dead,
And I, unmoved, replied, Asking in even tones, the place And hour you died.
But as, half reverently, he told The things I asked of him, I saw you on a summer night, With your eyes dim, Telling your dreams to me, the hopes That would not let you rest ; The faith in life, the faith in love. I saw your breast Rising and falling to the moon
White as a troubled -tide That sweeps the world, but cannot find A place -to abide.
Youth upon your shoulders lay, A cloak that' made you one With the luring beauty of the South ; Warm as the Sun.
Your hair was fragrant in those days, And your eager hands would touch The empty air as though your thoughts Were fruit to clutch.
You would not rest. One night you lay Sleeping upon my breast ; I saw the torment of your sleep— You would not rest !
Daylong, nightlong, throbbing heart, Wounded with life, you bled.
Now it is over ; now you are healed ; Now you are dead !
R T CFI .kltD Carnerr.
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