THE WHITE PEACOCK 163 



Ah, nothing, nothing ! Commonest things : 

 A touch, a glimpse, a sound, a breath 



It is a song the oriole sings 



And all the rest belongs to death. 



But oriole, my oriole, 



Were some bright seraph sent from bliss 

 With songs of heaven to win my soul 



From simple memories such as this, 



What could he tell to tempt my ear 



From you ? What high thing could there be, 



So tenderly and sweetly dear 

 As my lost boyhood is to me ? 



WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS. 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 



HERE where the sunlight 



Floodeth the garden, 



Where the pomegranate 



Rearetli its glory 



Of gorgeous blossom ; 



Where the oleanders 



Dream through the noon-tides ; 



And, like surf o' the sea 



Round cliffs of basalt, 



The thick magnolias 



In billowy masses 



Front the sombre green of the ilexes 



Here where the heat lies 



