I lift the sash—and live, the gale Comes leaping to my call. The rose is but a painted one That hangs upon the wall. 

Comes leaping to my call.

That hangs upon the wall.

 

 

 AN INTERPRETATION. 

 CHOPIN. 

 Prelude in C Minor, Opus 28. 

 From whirlwind to shower, From noon-glare to shadow, From the plough to the vesper, A day is gone. From passion to purpose, From turmoil to rest, From discord to harmony, Life moveth on. 

A day is gone.

Life moveth on.

 From terror and heartbreak, From anger of anguish, From vigil and famine, A soul has gone. By mercy of mystery, Through trust which is best, To feasting and sleeping now, God calleth on. 

A soul has gone.

God calleth on.

 

 

 THE SPHINX.[1] 

 O glad girls' faces, hushed and fair! how shall I sing for ye? For the grave picture of a sphinx is all that I can see. 

 Vain is the driving of the sand, and vain the desert's art; The years strive with her, but she holds the lion in her heart. 

 Baffled or fostered, patient still, the perfect purpose clings; Flying or folded, strong as stone, she wears the eagle's wings. 

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