melody of the forenoon,

and your phantom is a living temple of purity

chanting the magic of the chaste dark.

The strange imagination passes over it

and floats in its passing night,

and that prayer sings along with the dream,

and your image remains in my mind.

***

On your lips is the escape of the forenoon,

and at the sight of you the flush of twilight,

and in your cheeks the blaze of late afternoon,

its visions enfolded by the ropes of dusk;

it lets fall about you the robe of enchantment

and wakens a dream on the eyelid of sleeplessness,

whose scattered fragments the memories gather

for a phantom sprung from murmurings,

and a morning from which beauty paints,

fashioning your elegant temple.

***

Your tenderness, daughter of the merry spring

and queen of its fragrant flowers:

your perfume refreshes it at morning

and that pure vision waters it,

so the mantle of wondrous beauty trails

and scatters its musing fingertips,

and its charming petals remain

at the dawn of your desire, whenever it blossoms,

and its butterflies rise in the forenoon

to kiss from you a passing dew.

spring—how sweet you are...!

From Miss Bilqis Abou Khudud, of Freetown in Africa, a charming letter in which Miss Abou Khudud expresses her admiration for The Woman's Voice in its writing and its production, and wishes that it may come within reach of all classes, to help raise woman's level.

We thank the gracious young lady for her confidence in this magazine,

and we thank her for her efforts in spreading The Woman's Voice among the emigrant women.

Miss Abou Khudud enclosed with her letter a poem entitled "Ah, This World of Sorrows," full of feeling, which the young lady composed, as she says, in the wake of an emotional shock. But the poem, for all the feeling in it, cannot be published, because most of its verses are broken in meter and difficult even to correct. We have one piece of advice for our friend the young lady: let her write in prose what she wishes to put into verse, for her ardent feeling and deep sincerity can be expressed in prose better than they can in verse. And until our young poetess's wing grows strong, we present to the readers of The Woman's Voice a sample of her poetry:

The dew has moistened the boughs with the night's moist damp— pearls appearing at dawn like the sun's majestic radiance; it is a throne for the blackbird and the nightingale's corner. The warblings rose high from upon the fresh bough, and the birds of the

grove sing their tune at sunset.

And I, O bird, complain— so hear the mournful one's complaint: morning has broken my wing, the fall of calamities has terrified me; I wither for the grief of my youth— where, O bird, is my beloved??

Bilqis Abou Khudud

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