EDITORIAL NOTE TO POETRY

he strides, nor slackens speed, And knows not where his path will lead. A bird's song in the night is heard, "Ah me, what hast thou done, O bird, How dost thou grip my sense and feet And pourest heart-vexation sweet Into mine ear—I must remain, To hearken fain: Why lure me with inviting strain?" The good bird speaks, staying his song: "I lure not thee,—no, thou art wrong— With these my trills I lure my mate from off the hills— Nor heed thy plight. To me alone the night's not fair. What's that to thee? Forth must thou fare, On, onward ever, resting ne'er. Why stand'st thou now? What has my piping done to thee, Thou roaming wight?" The good