The Butterfly soared in the air, straight toward the beckoning spark;
His wings grew weary and chill, but the Star smiled through the dark;
His wings grew heavy and cold, the wings that he dreamed love gave,
And he folded them there in the starlight, and the dust became his grave.
THE RIDDLE OF THE SPHINX.
From age to age the haggard human train
Creeps wearily across Time's burning sands
To look into her face, and lift weak hands
In supplication to the calm disdain
That crowns her stony brow.... But all in vain
The riddle of mortality they try:
Doom speaks still from her unrelenting eye—
Doom deep as passion, infinite as pain.
From age to age the voice of Love is heard
Pleading above the tumult of the throng,
But evermore the inexorable word
Comes like the tragic burden of a song.
"The answer is the same," the stern voice saith:
"Death yesterday, today and still tomorrow—Death!"
THE MOTHERS.
Beyond the tumult and the proud acclaim,
Beyond the circle where the glory beats
With withering light upon the mighty seats,
They hear the far-resounding trump of fame;
On other lips they hear the one-loved name
In vaunting or derision, and they weep
To know that they shall never lull to sleep
Those tired heads, crowned with desolating flame.
Beyond the hot arena's baleful glow,
Beyond the towering pomp they dimly see,
They sit and watch the fateful pageants go
Through war's red arch, or up to Calvary,
The First Love still within their hearts impearled—
Mothers of all the masters of the world!