The Anchorite.

Day brings me no more songs….
Yet all around the birds' glad notes are winging
And sunlight glows on summer's robe of flowers;
But, sad and mute, through echoing, halls I wander,
Threading alone the archways of the hours.
Night brings me no more dreams….
Yet o'er the sky's clear depths the moon is gliding
And starlight glistens on the shimmering sea;
But I in darkness keep my lonely virgil,
And Sleep's bright visions come no more to me.
Life brings me no more joy….
Dewdrops and sunrise and the stir of flowers,
Rustle of grass and whispering hiss of rain….
All these I fled, to seek more heavenly beauty;
And yet—to-night—I know not what I gain.

—J. Mather.

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