A HORSESHOE nailed, for luck, upon a mast:
That mast, wave-bleached, upon the shore was cast!
I saw, and thence no fetich I revered,
Yet safe, through tempest, to my haven steered.


The place with rose and myrtle was o’ergrown,
Yet Feud and Sorrow held it for their own.
My garden then I sowed without one fear, —
Sowed fennel, yet lived griefless all the year.


Brave lines, long life, did my friend’s hand display.
Not so mine own ; yet mine is quick to-day.
Once more in his I read Fate’s idle jest,
Then fold it down forever on his breast.
Edith M. Thomas.