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 throngAre 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 bowYour heads and weep for Daphnis." And he sangOf Polyphemus till the meadows rang.Of Aeschines he sang; then bowed his headAnd sang of Amaryllis loved, yet dead.Then in a gladdened tone he told the talesOf goatherds' loves in still Sicilian vales,There the cicada with a noisy noteChirped in the pine tree while the poet wrote.Within his verse he caught the hum of beesThat haunt the flowers underneath those trees.
Mary Lapsley CaugheyThe North American Review


TO HILDA OF HER ROSES
Enough has been said about rosesTo fill thirty thick volumes:There are as many songs about rosesAs there are roses in the worldThat includes Mexico . . . . the Azores . . . . Oregon , . . .
It is a pity your rosesAre too late for Omar . . . . . .It is a pity Keats has gone . . . . . .

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