September 30

Now will I sing unto my well-beloved a song of my Beloved.

BENEATH the beechen shade The golden sunbeam strayed In sleep, my flock slept round me, all was still; When from afar I caught A flute's clear note, methought Some shepherd bids me to a contest of sweet skill.

It ceased, and at its close A Voice in song arose, So sword-like sweet, it seemed to cleave the thin Warm air, and still, with soft Delay, to question oft, And still to woo, and evermore to win.

This was no ancient tale Of flying nymph, or bold Free hunter, this no old Fond funereal wail For Youth slow fading by a fountain's side And yet a high lament Through all its changes went, It told of One that loved, it told of One that died.

DORA GREEN- WELL

It told of rude disgrace, And of an anguish'd face It told, methought; and of a wounded Friend. Of pain it told, and shame; Of love that overcame Through simple skill of loving to the end.

A SHEPHERD