Grey Matter. She. They leave us nothing. He. Still, a little's left. She. A crabbed, ancient, dried biologist, Somewhere very far from the sea, closed up from the sky, Shut in from the leaves, destroys our hopes and us. He. Why, no, our hopes and. In his "Erster Heft," Page something, I forget the line, he says That, hidden as deep in the brain as he himself from hope, There's this grey matter. He. Why, 'tis there, dear heart. She. That, if that hidden matter cools, decays, Dies-what you will-our souls die out as well; Since hidden in the millionth of a cell Is all we have to give us consciousness. He. Suppose it true. She. Ah, never; better die, Better have never lived than faced this mist, Better have never toiled to such distress. He. It matters little. She. Little! Where shall I, The woman, where shall you take part, My poet? Where has either of us scope In this dead-dawning century that lacks all faith, That comforteth, since he, victorious With his cold vapours chills out you and me, He. For you and I remain, Never, dear. The woman and the poet. And soft rain Still falls, and still the crocus flames, The blackbird calls. She. The voices of our children at their games He. But half the sweet is gone. Why, never, dear. Out there, The sea's a cord of silver, still to south Beyond the marsh. She. Ah, but beyond it all, And all beneath and all above, half of the glory's done. And I and you. He. ... Why, no. The ancient sun Shines as it ever shone, and still your mouth Is sweet as of old it was. She. He. All the old pains, But what remains? And all the old sweet pleasures and the mystery Of time, slow travel and unfathomed deep. Whether to Church or College rings Poet and woman, past the city walls, Hear turn by turn the burden of their calls, Since, by the revolution of the wheel, He. For me and you, Ah, no. A sure intent. The right, true, joyful word, the sweet, true phrase, The calling of our children from the woods these garden days, Remain. These drops of rain have laid the dust Be sure the little grains your hands have pressed Even so He. Once more, and we once more must sow and weed, Wisdom. THE young girl questions: "Whether were it better, To lie for ever, a warm slug-a-bed, Or to rise up and 'bide by Fate and Chance, The rawness of the morning, The gibing and the scorning "I know not," Wisdom said. The young girl questions: "Friend, shall I die calmer, Of peril in the highways, Of straying in the by-ways, Of hunger for the truth, of drought and thirst?" "We do not know," he said, "Nor may till we be dead." M'Andrews' Hymn. LORD, Thou hast made this world below the shadow of a dream, An', taught by time, I tak' it so-exceptin'always Steam. From coupler-flange to spindle-guide I see Thy Hand, O God Predestination in the stride o' yon connectin'-rod. John Calvin might ha' forged the same―enorrmous, certain, slow, Ay, wrought it in the furnace-flame-my "Institutio." I cannot get my sleep to-night; old bones are hard to please; I'll stand the middle watch up here-alone wi' God an' these My engines, after ninety days o' race an' rack an' strain Through all the seas of all Thy world, slam-bangin' home again. Slam-bang too much—they knock a wee-the crosshead-gibs are loose; But thirty thousand mile o' sea has gi'ed them fair excuse Fine, clear an' dark-a full-draught breeze, wi' Ushant out o' sight, An' Ferguson relievin' Hay. Old girl, ye'll walk to |