Love me, beloved: for, many a day, Love me, beloved: for thou mayest lie The love that within thee moves to and fro; Love me, beloved: for I may lie Dead in thy sight, 'neath the same blue sky; Love me, beloved: for one must lie To the lips that never brought love amiss; Love me, beloved: for both must lie The world be the same when we are gone; The leaves and the waters all sound on; The spring comes forth, and the wild flowers live, Gifts for the poor man's love to give; The sea, the lordly, the gentle sea, Tell the same tales to others than thee; A youthful race call our earth their own, Like the foam-flake thou lookedst on yesterday. Love me, beloved: for both must tread On the threshold of Hades, the house of the dead; I pray thee to love me, beloved of my heart; Love me, beloved: Hades and Death These hands, that now are at home in thine, That our souls may be wedded eternally. O, MY LOVE IS LIKE A WIND OF O DEATH MY love is like a wind of death, That turns me to a stone! O, my love is like a desert breath, O, my love is like a flower with a purple glow, But a black spot lies at the heart below, O, my love is like the poison sweet One flash in the eyes, one bounding beat, O, my love she's like a white, white rose! THE HURT OF LOVE THE hurt, the hurt, and the hurt of love! Wherever the sun shines, the waters go. It hurts the snowdrop, it hurts the dove, God on His throne, and man below. But sun would not shine, nor waters go, Snowdrop tremble, nor fair dove moan, God be on high, nor man below, But for love-for the love with its hurt alone. Thou knowest, O Saviour, its hurt and its sorrows, Didst rescue its joy by the might of thy pain: Lord of all yesterdays, days, and to-morrows, Help us love on in the hope of thy gain: Hurt as it may, love on, love forever; Love for loves sake, like the Father above, But for whose brave-hearted Son we had never Known the sweet hurt of the sorrowful love. SONG EYES of beauty, eyes of light, Sweetly, softly, sadly bright! Draw not, ever, o'er my eye, Be not proud, O glorious orbs! One moment, be less perfect, sweet; For now I have no soul; a sea GUY DE MAUPASSANT HENRY RENÉ ALBERT GUY DE MAUPASSANT, famous French novelist, was born at Miromesnil, Seine-Inférieure, France, in 1850; died at Paris, in 1893. His first bow to the literary public was made through a short story, "Boule-de-Suif." He wrote rapidly, producing over twenty books, prose and verse, in less than twelve years. He belonged to the naturalistic school of French writers, and his style is most graphic. His best works are "Mademoiselle Fifi," "Contes du jour et de la nuit,” “La Petite Roque," "La Main Gauche," and Notre Cœur." 66 WHO CAN TELL? (Copyright by Brentanos. Translated by E. P. Robins) Y I My God! My God! At last, then, I am to com But mit to paper that which happened me. can I do it? Shall I dare do it? It is all so strange, so inexplicable, so incomprehensible, so maddening! Were I not assured of what my eyes beheld; were I not certain that there was nothing defective in my reasoning, that there was no error in my observation, no link missing in the chain of rigorous verification, I should set myself down as a mere bedlamite, the sport of a fantastic vision. After all, who can tell? I am to-day the inmate of an asylum for lunatics, but I took up my abode there voluntarily, from caution, from fear! Only one living soul is acquainted with my story. The physician here. I am |