AFTER HEINE

MY love she leans from the window Afar in a rosy land; And red as a rose are her blushes, And white as a rose her hand. And the roses cluster around her, And mimic her tender grace; And nothing but roses can blossom Wherever she shows her face. I dwell in a land of winter, From my love a world apart,— But the snow blooms over with roses At the thought of her in my heart. This German style of poem Is uncommonly popular now; For the worst of us poets can do it— Since Heine showed us how. H. C. Bunner.

RAIN on the face of the sea, Rain on the sodden land, And the window-pane is blurred with rain As I watch it, pen in hand. Mist on the face of the sea, Mist on the sodden land, Filling the vales as daylight fails, And blotting the desolate sand. Voices from out of the mist, Calling to one another: "Hath love an end, thou more than friend, Thou dearer than ever brother?" Voices from out of the mist, Calling and passing away; But I cannot speak, for my voice is weak, And . . . this is the end of my lay. Rudyard Kipling.