Love’s handmaid has passed this way.

Did the long miles fret or the red suns beat?

Did the great stones tear at her little white feet?

Did the storm winds harry with stinging sleet,

Or the mad seas bid her stay?

Ah, Allah is great; but Love is great

When the woman-heart needs make atoning and wait:

She has led him back to the crystal gate,—

Together they entered there.

The Great Steep’s Garden is musked today:

The spices of Araby over it lay,

For Love’s handmaiden has passed this way,

Forget-me-nots tressed in her hair.

Indian Paint Brush.

Brave bold warrior, standing afar

On the summit place where the wind-torn pine

At the battle front of the timberline

Knows never an end of the harrowing war

Of Life on Death!—and there arrayed

In the trappings of battle and unafraid,

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