And silent, as in bleak dismay That song should thus forsaken be, On that forgotten ground there lay The broken flutes of Arcady. The forest that was all so grand When pipes and tabors had their sway Stood leafless now, a ghostly band Of skeletons in cold array. A lonely surge of ancient spray Told of an unforgetful sea, But iron blows had hushed for aye The broken flutes of Arcady. No more by summer breezes fanned, The place was desolate and gray; But still my dream was to command New life into that shrunken clay. I tried it. Yes, you scan to-day, With uncommiserating glee, The songs of one who strove to play The broken flutes of Arcady. ENVOY So, Rock, I join the common fray, To fight where Mammon may decree; And leave, to crumble as they may, The broken flutes of Arcady. 

  

       Ballade of Dead Friends     

      As we the withered ferns By the roadway lying, Time, the jester, spurns All our prayers and prying —       All our tears and sighing, Sorrow, change, and woe —       All our where-and-whying For friends that come and go. Life awakes and burns,       Age and death defying, Till at last it learns All but Love is dying; Love's the trade we're plying, God has willed it so; Shrouds are what we're buying For friends that come and go. Man forever yearns For the thing that's flying. Everywhere he turns, Men to dust are drying, —       Dust that wanders, eying      (With eyes that hardly glow)       New faces, dimly spying For friends that come and go. ENVOY And thus we all are nighing The truth we fear to know:      Death will end our crying For friends that come and go. 

  

       Her Eyes     

      Up from the street and the crowds that went, Morning and midnight, to and fro, Still was the room where his days he spent, And the stars were bleak, and the nights were slow. Year after year, with his dream shut fast, He suffered and strove till his eyes were dim, For the love that his brushes had earned at last, —       And the whole world rang with the praise of him. But he cloaked his triumph, and searched, instead, Till his cheeks were sere and his hairs were gray.      "There are women enough, God knows," he said. . . .       "There are stars enough — when the sun's 

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