Ringing—what memories to ring—to those
That linger here—the lizard and the cat,
That haunt these solitudes in state morose
Through the long day their silent habitat.
Untroubled,—save when in the moonlight steals
Some voice in song across the lower wall,
And sudden magic each old rafter feels,
The while the echoes round it rise and fall.
For as the wail of love or sorrow rings
Along the night soft steps are on the stair
And pathway; in the broken window wings
Are stirring, and white arms are lolling there.
And that old rose tree lifts its head anew,
And there is perfume o'er the hills afar,
From where Alhambra's crescent cleaves the blue
To where agleam Genil and Darro are.
O Voice!—what is thy necromantic word
That all Granada waits adown the years?
Is it the sound some love-swept night has heard?—
The cry of love amid the cry of tears?—
Thomas Walsh
AMIEL'S GARDEN
His Garden! His bright candelabra trees
En fête. His lilacs steeped in joy! His sky
Limpid and blue! The same flecked shadows lie
Athwart this path he paced. His reveries
Float in the air. His moods, his ecstasies
Still linger charmed. Pale butterflies flit by—
Were one his soul it had not found on high
Banquet more choice than those infinities
He daily knew. And now no one to hear
The hovering hours, the singing grass, to feel
The wrinkles of the soul smooth out, to see
God's shadow bend down from eternity—
His garden empty! Yet I gently steal
Lest I disturb his dreams still smiling near.
Gertrude Huntington McGiffert