The meshes of memory's net;
When the grace that forgives has forgotten
The things that are good to forget;
When the trill of my juvenile trumpet
Is dead and its echoes are dead;
Then the laurel shall lie on the crumpet
And crown of my head!
Owen Seaman.
NEPHELIDIA
FROM the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn through a notable nimbus of nebulous moonshine,