We felt no sense of loss when, years ago,
Our faith in the enthroned God was shaken.
We had so many things: how could we know
That we should grieve for old beliefs forsaken?

Beauty of winds that blew from far strange places, Companionship with earth in her green springs, We knew. Beneath the wide sky's starry spaces Desire to know the mysteries of things.

Friendship and mirth we had, and ours was youth,
And love, like great deep-shadowing peaceful trees.
So, having all that men would have save truth,
We read with laughter old philosophies.

But now we go alone, though hand in hand,
Tongue-tied with passions God would understand.

In the Potato Field

By EDWIN FORD PIPER

An hour till noon, yet shimmering waves of heat Blur the horizon. In the open field

The nervous horses drag the noisy plough,

And swing their sweaty necks and switch at flies. The lines are knotted at Big Brother's back;

His tanned arms tensely steer the quivering handles While the black furrow, flowing, buries

Dead vine and growing weed. Wild buckwheat bloom Sprinkles the patch with color; one sunflower Doming in blossom, shades a sleepy dog.

With fingers like dry clods Father and I
Rake in the odorous earth; under my knees
The soil is cool and crumbly. Brother comes
To help; I show as prize a great potato

Larger than my bare foot. He laughs and calls,
As he pours my bucket into a half-filled sack,
"A good yield, Father."

Just then a white grub

Like a fat wheel rolls down to the furrow. I miss

The talk till I hear Father say: "The interest
Will eat up the whole crop."

I look all round.

The tone and the mystery strike to my heart.