Soft-couch'd upon a bank Lay Caoilte on the cliff-top, while he drank The sweetness of the morning air, that brought A spell of dreamful ease and pleasant thought, With mem'ries from the deeps of other years When Dermaid, unforgotten by his peers, And Oscar, fair and young, went forth with mirth A-hunting o'er the hills around the firth On such an April morn....

The children of our Nation are not without that imagination which, on one day or another, impels a child to wander, "lonely as a cloud," along the path of dreamful, solitary play.

But at last she spoke, putting a hushing hand on Eric's dreamful head.

Now you must not think that I was not utter stirred by the wonder of this thing, that we had both a dreamful knowledge of the same matters, of which each had thought none other knew.

And odd whiles I did lie with mine eyes half to open, and did look very dreamful upward among the dark branches of the tree, as they did show black and pretty against the redness of the shining that came from the sea; for there was stood a great and bright-burning fire-hill in that part of the sea that lay off the shore from me.

And, in verity, as I did lie there so dreamful, it did come to me afresh how wondrous strange was mine adventure; and how that I did lie warm and alive in a Country of red light and smoking seas.

No unsubstantial shapes are they, The offspring of the mist and sea; No splendid vision of Cathay, Recalled in dreamful revery; Their solid bastions,towering high Though rooted in earth's primal plan, Proclaim to every passer by The cradle of the Corsican.

BEFORE A STATUE OF BUDDHA O Buddha, of the mystic smile And downcast, dreamful eyes, To whom unnumbered sacred shrines And gilded statues rise, Whose fanes are filled with worshippers, Whose hallowed name is sung By myriads of the human race In every Eastern tongue, What means thy sweet serenity?

Across Lake Como's silvered undulation The flush of dawn creeps shyly to his face, And crowns his look of dreamful contemplation With tender grace.

I heed not, if My rippling skiff Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff; With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise.

With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Where Summer sings and never dies, O'erveiled with vines, She glows and shines Among her future oil and wines.

With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise! ROBA DI ROMA.

NOSTALGIA Fair were the dreamful days of old, When in the summer's sleepy shade, Beneath the beeches on the wold, The shepherds lay and gently played Music to maidens, who, afraid, Drew all together rapturously, Their white soft hands like white leaves laid, In the old dear days of Arcady.

ON THE "CHANT D'AMOUR" OF BURNE-JONES ROGER SHERMAN LOOMIS '09 Mysterious damozel in white, White like the swans that glide upon the pool below, Who art thou that with fingers light Playest upon those ivory keys such music low? O winged youth in dreamful thought, With eyelids weighed with utter sweetness, who art thou, With garments by the breezes caught, Whose hands with drowsy motion ply the bellows now?

Then came the strange thought that this place of dreamful beauty should be in the hands of a few simple ecclesiastical persons; the town is little more than a village; century by century it has lived a little, quiet provincial life.

It seems to be a place that ought to have a dreamful, appreciative, emotional life of its own, a place where a few worthy natures might live in a serene, joyful, impassioned mood; a place where there is nothing that need remind the dweller of ugliness or vulgarity, of progress or statistics; a place for elect souls and fine natures.

But there was a more serious side to this dreamful fancy when it joined hands with religion.

One day Erh-lang roamed the lakeside, delighting in the soft air, and saw, in front of a teahouse, a ravishing girl of about eighteen, in whose face, which was as dreamful as the Night Star, flowered all the blossoms of the time.

NOSTALGIA Fair were the dreamful days of old, When in the summer's sleepy shade, Beneath the beeches on the wold, The shepherds lay and gently played Music to maidens, who, afraid, Drew all together rapturously, Their white soft hands like white leaves laid, In the old dear days of Arcady.

The golden glory of the days, When Indian Summer fills the land, Descends in gleams and dreamful haze, Like blessings from the Lord's right hand.