Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/41

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THEOCRITUS δ' ου πολἐμους, δ' ου δάχρυα
Not of war, nor of tears did he build his song,
For the hills and the fields and the shepherd throng
Are caught in his delicate net of words,
With the dread wood-nymphs and the grey sea birds.
Daphnis, he sang. "Daphnis is dying now.
Ye violets bear thorns, ye cattle bow
Your heads and weep for Daphnis." And he sang
Of Polyphemus till the meadows rang.
Of Aeschines he sang; then bowed his head
And sang of Amaryllis loved, yet dead.
Then in a gladdened tone he told the tales
Of goatherds' loves in still Sicilian vales,
There the cicada with a noisy note
Chirped in the pine tree while the poet wrote.
Within his verse he caught the hum of bees
That haunt the flowers underneath those trees.

Mary Lapsley Caughey
The North American Review


TO HILDA OF HER ROSES
Enough has been said about roses
To fill thirty thick volumes:
There are as many songs about roses
As there are roses in the world
That includes Mexico . . . . the Azores . . . . Oregon , . . .

It is a pity your roses
Are too late for Omar . . . . . .
It is a pity Keats has gone . . . . . .

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