anything that satisfied me. There are so many half-way poets deluging the world with so-called poetry that I am disgusted, and do not wish to add to the burdens of the long-suffering public. I believe my sister has the most of my writings, but they shall never be published while I am alive."
And that to a very great extent is the secret of his apparent non-success. He had looked into himself and was not satisfied with what he saw there. That habit of introspection made him cynical to a certain degree. Not that he desired to avenge himself upon the world, for he was one of the gentlest men I have ever met. but rather he sought to scourge him- self for his own shortcomings.
Like most poets he had a horror of writing to order. The Mexican or Spanish manana (tomorrow) was his answer if asked when a promised poem would be finished, and the tomorrow never came.
The writer once engaged him to furnish a poem for a publication on a certain date. Day after day passed, but no poem materialized, and finaly the publication went to press without it. It was not because he did not desire to serve me, but simply because his muse would not "work to order," as he explained. He would supply me with poems unasked and unpaid for, but could not or would not furnish them by request. Readers of his poetry, some of which is published in this issue, will be struck with the grace of his style and the power of the words used to express his ideas. He was Oregon's sweetest singer, and leaves a place by his untimely death, which there is none to fill. That he was held in high esteem for his talents was evident by the array of prominent jurists, journalists and business men who followed him to the grave ; and it is a sad thought that one so fitted to challenge esteem could not have been lifted to a position which his genius deserved, while living. His name is not written high upon the scroll of fame, yet who shall say his life was not of value to the world?
Phoebe.
I am not blinded to the truth;
The beauties, form and mind,
That make so fair bright Phoebe's youth,
Were net for me designed.
Yet will I linger while I may
Within her gentle sphere;
Her soul contemplate, day by day,
So tender, pure, sincere.
And when our lives are forced apart,
I still will bear with me,
Enshrined within my inmost heart,
Her sacred memory.
The bard has sweetly sung the vase
Made sweet by scents confined;
So will the perfume of her grace
Through life pervade my mind.
The constant law of life is change;
Naught may escape its power;
From passion we to passion range,
As bees from flower to flower.
No more shall we be glad in spring,
Since 'tis not always May?
Nor more grand autumn's glories sing,
Since they must pass away?
True wisdom quarrels not with heaven,
Whatever fate it send:
Thankful when life's bright joys are given-
Submissive when they end.
So will I linger, while I may
In Phoebe's gentle sphere;
Her soul contemplate day by day,
So tender, pure, sincere.
And when our lives are forced apart,
I still will bear with me,
Enshrined within my inmost heart,
Her sacred memory.
S. E.
