POETRY.
A song and a laugh and a shining blade. The hermit who hears me forgets to pray, The sunburnt peasant throws down his spade, The merchant of spices grows tired of trade, When I am in love in the noon of May.
The envious anchorite marks my way, The shepherd forgets that his sheep have strayed Through the green of the vines to the olive's grey ; The trader curses his sordid trade, Amber and rubies, Chinese jade,— " Better, far better his lot," they say.
If love is in vain, I will take my sword, No part of my joy will I leave behind, But swimming the rivers I cannot ford, I shall come to the hills that are always kind, My hills I would seek, though my eyes were blind, More dear to my feet than a velvet sward.
If love is not mine, there is this for me, A cliff full of shadows where beech leaves fall, The song of the wind on a sunlit sea, The sound of the waves that are free, free, free, While the evening star for my festival.
BEN KENDINI.
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