At the summit of the tower where haunt the jackdaws,
Thou wilt find her standing, white, with long black hair,
Two rings of fine silver hanging from her ears;

And her eyes more clear than the stars of bright nights.

Go, sombre messenger, tell her I love her well;
And this is my heart! She will recognize it,

That it is red and strong and does not tremble nor pale;
And the daughter of Ylmer will smile at thee, Crow.

I die. My spirit flows out from twenty wounds.
I have lived my time. Drink, wolves, my vermillion blood.
Young, brave, laughing, and without a stigma,

I go to take seat midst the Gods in the Sun!

LE CONTE DE LISLE

BY PIERRE LOUYS

Translated from the French by Celia Louise Crittenton

On my monument, amidst laurels and pikes
Stranger, on the bed of my last sleep,

A sculptor of stone has engraved the sun,
And the golden cicala and the peacock Olympic.

I have sung of heroes, of the dead, of epic scenes,
Of holy Hellas the impassible awakening,
And, with eyes dazzled by rosy remembrance,
I have sung your purple walls, O Tropical Gulfs.

And there is my tomb. Peace of the native earth,
Perfumes, splendour of the Oriental dream
Will not have encircled my exiled remains;

But the austere life is the glorous death.

I have clothed my desires in a wingèd armour

And have given their soul and their power to the Gods!

BY PAUL SCOTT MOWRER

I

MIST ON THE MOOR

Was it only the wind-the gray wind?
Or somebody lost in the waste of the sea?
Voices, cries-from the empty cliffs!—
Where none should be!

And what was that-by the old stone?
The bracken shivers as if in dread,

And shapes of mist go shuddering by
Like souls of the dead.

Those cries again! Now which is the path.
To the little house? I've stayed too long
There's a sweet fire in the little house,
And the door is strong!

II

THE PHANTOM WASHERWOMAN

Turn the broom, and shut the door!

Hang the tripod off the floor!

Empty water on the ground!

-As I was coming past the meadow spring-
It's dark tonight!—I couldn't see a thing
At first, but then I heard a dripping sound!
There was a woman kneeling on a stone,
A stranger, dipping her linen all alone!

Her eyes were queer, her arms were long and white!
Oh, shut the door and bolt it tight!

She spoke she asked me would I do

The wringing-but I ran, for then I knew

It was the Washerwoman of the Night!

So turn the broom! Shut the door!

Hang the tripod off the floor,

And scatter suds along the sill!

-What makes that noise? What makes the candle flare?

Someone is walking in the dark out there!

Don't answer! Maybe she'll go way! Be very still!

III

THE VOICE OF THE DEAD

Out of the weary sea, the moan of a wave;
Out of the quiet sky, the note of a bird:
All that is vast and deep will utter its word-
All that is vast and deep-even the grave.

Parting the dreams of night, the dead come back;
And heart, be still, put under your sharp dismay!
Hearken, my heart, for we shall become as they,
Echoes and whispers, haunting the lonely black.

Whispers and memories only-that is our lot?
Who but the dead can say, when all is said?
So ft as the voice of love is the voice of the dead:
istening heart, fear not, fear not, fear not!