Art thou a slave beneath its thong to cower?
Thou hast survived. And hither am I—again,
Kindling with mockery thy o'erlaboured brain.
Though scant the moments be wherein we meet,
Think, what dark months would even one make sweet.
'Thy quill? Thy paper? Ah, my dear, be true.
Come quick To-morrow. Until then, Adieu.'
THE OLD ANGLER
TWILIGHT leaned mirrored in a pool
Where willow boughs swept green and hoar,