Or when you peer through a net of woven violet stems

In Spring grass.

It is not sunlight, not moonlight,

But a separate shining.

Joy lives behind people's eyes.

Reprinted by permission of F. A. Stokes Company, from Shoes of the Wind by Hilda Conkling, copyrighted, 1922.

From L'ALLEGRO

BY JOHN MILTON

Haste thee nymph, and bring with thee

Jest and youthful Jollity,

Quips and Cranks, and wanton Wiles

Nods, and Becks, and Wreathed Smiles
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,

And love to live in dimple sleek;

Sport that wrinkled Care derides,
And Laughter holding both his sides.
Com, and trip it as ye go

On the light fantastick toe,

And in thy right hand lead with thee,
The Mountain Nymph, sweet Liberty;
And if I give thee honour due,
Mirth, admit me of thy crue

To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreprovèd pleasures free;
To hear the Lark begin his flight,
And singing startle the dull night,
From his watch-towre in the skies,
Till the dappled dawn doth rise;

Then to com in spight of sorrow,
And at my window bid good morrow,
Through the Sweet-Briar, or the Vine,
Or the twisted Eglantine.

While the Cock with lively din,
Scatters the rear of darknes thin,
And to the stack, or the Barn dore,
Stoutly struts his Dames before,
Oft list'ning how the Hounds and horn
Chearly rouse the slumbring morn,
From the side of som Hoar Hill,
Through the high wood echoing shrill.
Som time walking not unseen

By Hedge-row Elms, on Hillocks green,
Right against the Eastern gate,
Wher the great Sun begins his state,
Rob'd in flames, and Amber light,
The clouds in thousand Liveries dight.
While the Plowman neer at hand,
Whistles ore the Furrow'd Land,
And the Milkmaid singeth blithe,
And the Mower whets his sithe,
And every Shepherd tells his tale
Under the Hawthorn in the dale.
Som times with secure delight
The up-land Hamlets will invite,
When the merry Bells ring round,
And the jocond rebecks sound

To many a youth, and many a maid,
Dancing in the Chequer'd shade;

And young and old com forth to play
On a Sunshine Holyday.

Towred Cities please us then,

And the busie humm of men,

Where throngs of Knights and Barons bold,
In weeds of Peace high triumphs hold,
With store of Ladies, whose bright eies
Rain influence, and judge the prise
Of Wit, or Arms, while both contend
To win her Grace, whom all commend.
There let Hymen oft appear

In Saffron robe, with Taper clear,
And pomp, and feast, and revelry,
With mask, and antique Pageantry,
Such sights as youthfull Poets dream
On Summer eeves by haunted stream.
Then to the well-trod stage anon,
If Jonsons learnèd Sock be on,
Or sweetest Shakespear fancies childe,
Warble his native Wood-notes wilde,
And ever against eating Cares,
Lap me in soft Lydian Aires,
Married to immortal verse

Such as the meeting soul may pierce
In notes, with many a winding bout
Of linckèd sweetnes long drawn out,
With wanton heed, and giddy cunning,
The melting voice through mazes running;
Untwisting all the chains that ty
The hidden soul of harmony.

That Orpheus self may heave his head
From golden slumber on a bed
Of heapt Elysian flowres, and hear
Such streins as would have won the ear
Of Pluto, to have quite set free
His half regain'd Eurydice.

These delights, if thou canst give,
Mirth with thee, I mean to live.

JENNY KISSED ME

BY LEIGH HUNT

Jenny kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in!

Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,

Say that health and wealth have missed me, Say I'm growing old, but add,

Jenny kissed me.

VILLANELLE, WITH STEVENSON'S
ASSISTANCE

BY FRANKLIN P. ADAMS

The world is so full of a number of things.
Like music and pictures and statues and plays,
I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings.

We've winters and summers and autumns and springs, We've Aprils and Augusts, Octobers and Mays— The world is so full of a number of things.

Though minor the key of my lyrical strings,

I change it to major when pæaning praise: I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings.

Each morning a myriad wonderments brings,
Each evening a myriad marvels conveys,
The world is so full of a number of things.

With pansies and roses and pendants and rings, With purples and yellows and scarlets and grays, I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings.

So pardon a bard if he carelessly sings

A solo indorsing these Beautiful Days

The world is so full of a number of things,
I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings.

COMMUNION

BY SOPHIE JEwett

Dusk of a lowering evening,
Chill of a northern zone,
Pitiful press of worn faces,
And an exiled heart alone.