Harper's New Monthly Magazine Volume 104 December 1901 to May 1902 . the moon hangs pale;The apple petals sail, And sink in deep grass, gleaming green, Where darkening shadows lean. The robins twitter, settling slow; The nearing cattle low; Their herders whistle as they come, And children scamper home: All that went forth to toil and quest Gather to love and rest. My Spirit and the May BY MILDRED I. McNEAL Aloft within My souls wide windowed tower This morn of May I lip, to brow, to breath, the exquisiteYoung beauty of the time comes in, And every sunny mile Of wood and field doth smile
Harper's New Monthly Magazine Volume 104 December 1901 to May 1902 . the moon hangs pale;The apple petals sail, And sink in deep grass, gleaming green, Where darkening shadows lean. The robins twitter, settling slow; The nearing cattle low; Their herders whistle as they come, And children scamper home: All that went forth to toil and quest Gather to love and rest. My Spirit and the May BY MILDRED I. McNEAL Aloft within My souls wide windowed tower This morn of May I lip, to brow, to breath, the exquisiteYoung beauty of the time comes in, And every sunny mile Of wood and field doth smile Forth into early flower. Hast ever knownSuch sky, such plain, such shineOf sun and answering- sea! No stir of this dumb life but eladdens me With inarticulate song—its onePure utterance of praise—A song that runs apaceTo mate itself with mine. No body I—But spirit—spirit—comeTo tryst with life this utter youth of soul I slip awayFrom my gray brows—they shall not tieThis soul of mine to earth,—Tis part of the May mirth,And owns no dearer The Seaport Civita Vecchia The Italy of Virgil and Horace BY ELIZABETH ROBINS PEN NELL IALWAYS find honesty the best pol-icy, when not to be honest means tobe found out. Therefore I might aswell confess at the start that I have noLatin, and that I know Virgil and Hor-ace only in translations. The scholarmay say this is equivalent to not know-ing them at all. But I would notbelieve anybody who insisted that be-cause I had read Theocritus in version and not in the Greek,therefore I must remain a strangeramong the pines and on the thyme-scented hill-sides where the poet watchedhis visionary flocks. Translators lesshappy than Mr. Lang have, I admit, suc-ceeded in making the Georgics of Virgiland the Odes of Horace dull reading forthe outsider like myself; I might evenquote Dr. Johnson to prove that thelyrical part of Horace never can be Vol. CIV.—No. translated. Still, in the poorest para-phrase the lo
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