Part 9

My Marjorie doth hold in her white hands A spray of lilies plucked below the brook Where the old ruin of a chapel stands-- A ruin tenanted by many a nook, And all the grayness of it hid from sight By gracious draping of the ivy green. Sweet lilies, 'tis your glorious fate to-night To lie upon her breast, to send between Her silken bodice and the heart beneath The fragrance given you by sun and shower. Speak subtly with your warm, sweet-scented breath Till, 'mid the dance and music of the hour, She turn you love-filled eyes and glowing face, With: "Ah, ye grew in that old trysting place!"

ESTRANGED.

"It is good-bye," she said; "the world is wide, There's space for you and me to walk apart. Though we have walked together side by side, My thoughts all yours, my resting-place your heart, We now will go our different ways. Forget The happy past. I would not have you keep One thought of me. Ah, yes, my eyes are wet; My love is great, my grief must needs be deep.

"Yet I have strength to look at you, and say: Forget it all, forget our souls were stirred, Forget the sweetness of each dear, dead day, The warm, impassioned kiss, the tender word, The clinging handclasp, and the love-filled eyes-- Forget all these; but, when we walk apart Remember this, though wilful and unwise, No word of mine did ever hurt your heart."

THE PARTING.

One summer's morning I heard a lark Singing to heaven, a sweet-throated bird; One winter's night I was glad in the dark Because of the wondrous song I had heard.

The joy of life, I have heard you say, Is my love, my laughter, my smiles and tears; When I have gone on the long, strange way, Let these stay with you through all the years--

These be the lark's song. What is love worth That cannot crowd, in the time that's given To two like us on this gray old earth, Such bliss as will last till we reach heaven?

Dear one, think oft of the full, glad years, And, thinking of them, forget to weep. Whisper: "Remembrance holds no tears!" And kiss my mouth when I fall on sleep.

MARGARET.

Her eyes--upon a summer's day God's skies are not more blue than they.

Her hair--you've seen a sunbeam bold Made up of just such threads of gold.

Her cheek--the leaf which nearest grows The dewy heart of June's red rose.

Her mouth--full lipped, and subtly sweet As briar drowned in summer heat.

Her heart--December's chill and snow-- Heaven pity me, who love her so!

ST. VALENTINE.

The girl's a slender thing and fair, With dimpled cheek and eyes ashine; The youth is tall, with bashful air. Heigho! a fond and foolish pair-- The day is yours, St. Valentine.

He says: "My heart will constant prove, Since every beat of it is thine; The sweetest joy of life is love." The birds are mating in the grove-- The day is yours, St. Valentine.

What matter that the wind blows chill Through leafless tree and naked vine, That snowdrifts linger on the hill, When warm love makes the pulses thrill? The day is yours, St. Valentine.

TWO JUNE NIGHTS.

A red rose in my lady's hair, A white rose in her fingers, A wild bird singing low, somewhere, A song that pulses, lingers. The sound of dancing and of mirth, The fiddle's merry chiming, A smell of earth, of fresh, warm earth, And honeysuckle climbing; My lady near, yet far away-- Ah, lonely June of yesterday!

A big white night of velvet sky, And Milky Way a-gleaming, The fragrant blue smoke drifting by From camp-fire brightly beaming; The stillness of the Northland far-- God's solitudes of splendor-- My road a trail, my chart a star. Wind, 'mong the balsams slender, Sing low: O glad June of to-day, My lady's near, though far away!

REMEMBRANCE.

"Once they were lovers," says the world, "with young hearts all aglow; They have forgotten," says the world, "forgotten long ago." Between ourselves--just whisper it--the old world does not know.

They walk their lone, divided ways, but ever with them goes Remembrance, the subtle breath of love's sweet thorny rose.

THE EMIGRANT LADDIE.

Though long, long leagues of land and sea Stretch out between Braemar and me, I'll win home late or soon, Will take the old familiar way Past Isla Glen, up bold Glenshee, By sun-kissed hill and valley gray-- These feet of mine will find their way At midnight or at noon.

The hearth-fire, and the cot of stone Set 'mong the fir trees tall and lone, I'll see before my eyes; Hear rough winds kiss the heath-clad hill, The murmur gay of loch and rill, The mavis singing sweet and shrill, Hear, warm and soft as notes that thrill The souls in paradise.

A voice all tremulous and glad Cries out: "A welcome home, my lad!"

LOVE'S SERVICE.

Your presence is a psalm of praise, And as its measure grandly rings God's finger finds my heart and plays A _te deum_ upon its strings. I never see you but I feel That I in gratitude must kneel.

Your head down-bent, the brow of snow Crowned with the shining braids of hair, To me, because I love you so, Is in itself a tender prayer, All faith, all meekness, and all trust-- "Amen!" I cry, because I must.

Your clear eyes hold the text apart, And shame my love of place and pelf With, "Love the Lord with all thine heart, And love thy neighbor as thyself!" Dear eyes and true,--I sorely need More knowledge of your gracious creed.

About your lips the summer lies-- Who runs may read each subtle lure To draw me nearer to the skies, And make me strong, and keep me pure. I loathe my worldliness and guile Each time your red lips on me smile.

The benediction of your face-- Your lifted face--doth make a road For white-robed peace and golden grace To reach my heart and take its load. Dear woman saint, I bow the knee, And give God thanks for love and thee!

APRIL.

God's garden is this dim old wood, And hidden in its bosom The bursting bud, the feathery leaf And soft, sweet smelling blossom.

Ho! May is fair, and glorious June, In rose leaves doth enfold her; Their bloom is richer than my own, But mine is sweeter, bolder.

God's garden is this dim old wood, And I, the pretty vagrant, I am the gardener He sends To make it fair and fragrant.

IN MEMORIAM.

(_A Tribute to Mrs. George A. Cox._)

The Golden Rule--the blessed creed That shelters frail humanity, The tender thought for those in need, The charity of word and deed, Without which all is vanity--

This, friend, you made your very own, And yours the satisfying part To pluck the rose of love full blown, To reap the gladness you had sown With open hand and kindly heart.

Simplicity, the jewel rare, Whose gleam is ever true and warm-- That thing of worth beyond compare Which none but truly great may wear-- Adorned your life with power and charm.

Yours the sincerity that grips Fast hold of natures strong and wise; It thrilled you to your finger-tips, It set its seal on brow and lips, And shone within your dark, true eyes.

The throng knew not how rich the store Of sympathy and trust you had; Knew not you were, till life was o'er, God's almoner among His poor, God's comforter to sick and sad.

Too soon you went--we miss the cheer, The kindliness vouchsafed to all; The world seems strangely lone and drear When one whom many hearts hold dear Fares heavenward ere the shadows fall.

Too soon you went, and yet, maybe, Your work well done, your task complete, The soul of you turned longingly Toward gates of pearl and jasper sea And fields of Eden rarely sweet.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Cornflower, and Other Poems, by Jean Blewett