And I have not seen Carcassonne,
And I have not seen Carcassonne."

So crooned, one day, close by Limoux,
A peasant, double bent with age.
"Rise up, my friend," said I; "with you
I'll go upon this pilgrimage."

We left next morning his abode,

But (Heaven forgive me!) half way on

The old man died upon the road;

He never gazed on Carcassonne.

Each mortal has his Carcassonne.

The House by the Side of the Road

Sam Walter Foss

Sam Walter Foss was born in 1858 and died in 1911. In the course of his life he was a newspaper man, an editor, a lecturer, and a librarian. He wrote five volumes of poetry of a popular

nature.

A sympathetic imagination should characterize the reading of this poem. Project yourself into the lives of the passers-by. An almost infinite kindness pervades the whole, but at no place is weakness evident.

"He was a friend to man, and he lived

In a house by the side of the road."-Homer

THERE are hermit souls that live withdrawn
In the place of their self-content;
There are souls like stars, that dwell apart,
In a fellowless firmament;

There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths
Where highways never ran-

But let me live by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

Let me live in a house by the side of the road,
Where the race of men go by-

The men who are good and the men who are bad,
As good and as bad as I.

I would not sit in the scorner's seat,

Or hurl the cynic's ban

Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

I see from my house by the side of the road,
By the side of the highway of life,

The men who press with the ardor of hope,
The men who are faint with the strife.

But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears,
Both parts of an infinite plan—

Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead And mountains of wearisome height;

That the road passes on through the long afternoon
And stretches away to the night.

But still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice,
And weep with the strangers that moan,
Nor live in my house by the side of the road
Like a man who dwells alone.

Let me live in a house by the side of the road,
Where the race of men go by.

They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are

strong,

Wise, foolish-so am I;

Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat,

Or hurl the cynic's ban?

Let me live in my house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

Reprinted by permission of, and by special arrangement with, Lothrop, Lee, and Shepard Company, Boston, from Dreams in Homespun. Copyright by Lothrop, Lee, and Shepard Company.

Comrades

George Edward Woodberry

George Edward Woodberry was born at Beverly, Mass., May 12, 1855. He was formerly Professor of Comparative Literature in Columbia University, New York. He is the author of many books dealing with literary subjects.

This splendid expression of the love of youths, one for an other, should be read with depth of sentiment and fervor. Be careful in handling the irregularities of the verse not to dissipate the high music of the poem.

WHERE are the friends that I knew in my Maying, In the days of my youth, in the first of my

roaming?

We were dear; we were leal; oh, far we went straying;

Now never a heart to my heart comes homing!— Where is he now, the dark boy slender

Who taught me bare-back, stirrup and reins? I loved him; he loved me; my beautiful, tender Tamer of horses on grass-grown plains.

Where is he now whose eyes swam brighter,
Softer than love, in his turbulent charms;

Who taught me to strike, and to fall, dear fighter, And gathered me up in his boyhood arms; Taught me the rifle, and with me went riding, Suppled my limbs to the horseman's war; Where is he now, for whom my heart's biding, Biding, biding-but he rides far!

O love that passes the love of woman!
Who that hath felt it shall ever forget,

When the breath of life with a throb turns human,
And a lad's heart is to a lad's heart set?

Ever, forever, lover and rover—

They shall cling, nor each from other shall part Till the reign of the stars in the heavens be over, And life is dust in each faithful heart!

They are dead, the American grasses under;
There is no one now who presses my side;
By the African chotts I am riding asunder,
And with great joy ride I the last great ride.
I am fey; I am fain of sudden dying;

Thousands of miles there is no one near;
And my heart-all the night it is crying, crying
In the bosoms of dead lads darling-dear.

Hearts of my music-them dark earth covers;
Comrades to die, and to die for, were they;

In the width of the world there were no such

rovers

Back to back, breast to breast, it was ours to stay; And the highest on earth was the vow that we cherished,

To spur forth from the crowd and come back

nevermore,

And to ride in the track of great souls perished
Till the nests of the lark shall roof us o'er.

Yet lingers a horseman on Altai highlands,
Who hath joy of me, riding the Tartar glissade;
And one, far faring o'er orient islands

Whose blood yet glints with my blade's accolade; North, west, east, I fling you my last halloing,

Last love to the breasts where my own has bled; Through the reach of the desert my soul leaps pursuing

My star where it rises a Star of the Dead.
Reprinted by permission of the author.

Invictus

William Ernest Henley

William E. Henley was born at Gloucester in 1849. He engaged for many years in journalistic work and was for a time editor of certain London magazines. He has published a number of critical essays entitled "Views and Reviews," a volume of plays with Robert Louis Stevenson, of which "Beau Austin" was played with great success at the Haymarket Theatre. But he is best-known as a poet, from his "Book of Verses," and "The Song of the Sword." His note is strongly modern, and in sympathy with the younger school of British poets.

This heroic poem needs low pitch, a firm yet quick and energetic force, and an irresistible onward movement. The rate is slow and the tone round and full.

OUT of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.