AVICE

THOUGH the voice of modern

schools

Has demurred,

By the dreamy Asian creed

'Tis averred,

That the souls of men, released
From their bodies when deceased,
Sometimes enter in a beast-
Or a bird.

I have watched you long, Avice—
Watched you so,

I have found your secret out;

And I know

That the restless ribboned things,

Where your slope of shoulder springs, Are but undeveloped wings,

That will grow.

When you enter in a room,
It is stirred

With the wayward, flashing flight
Of a bird;

And you speak and bring with

you

Leaf and sun-ray, bud and blue, And the wind-breath and the dew, At a word.

All the sound was as the "sweet" Which the birds to birds repeat In their thank-song to the heat After rain.

You have just their eager, quick

Airs de tête,

All their flush and fever heat
When elate;

Every bird-like nod and beck,
And a bird's own curve of neck
When she gives a little peck
To her mate.

When you left me, only now,

In that furred,

Puffed, and feathered Polish dress, I was spurred

Just to catch you, my sweet,

By the bodice trim and neat—
Just to feel your heart a-beat
Like a bird.