Like the Moors, we all have dwellings where we vainly long to be,
And through all life's changing phases ever fast we hold the key.
Our fair country lies behind us; we are exiles, too, in truth,
For no more shall we behold her. Our Granada's name is Youth.
We have our delusive day-dreams, and rejoice when, now and then,
Some old heartstring stirs within us and we feel our youth again.
"We are young," we cry triumphant, thrilled with old-time joy and glee,
Then the dream fades slowly, softly, leaving nothing but the key!
_Bessie Chandler_.
* * * * *
DRIFTING.
My soul to-day is far away
Sailing the Vesuvian Bay;
My winged boat, a bird afloat,
Skims round the purple peaks remote.
Round purple peaks it sails and seeks
Blue inlets and their crystal creeks,
Where high rocks throw, through deeps below,
A duplicated golden glow.
Far, vague, and dim the mountains swim;
While on Vesuvius' misty brim,
With outstretched hands, the gray smoke stands
O'erlooking the volcanic lands.
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