Cross Roads

     IV.

     Where work lay for the asking it seemed that men
        MIGHT work,
     But prejudice was rampant in every shop and field;
     And, "What if you ARE trying, MY scythe you may
        not wield!"
     Men told the thief, who answered—"Indeed, I will
        not shirk!"
     And carpenters and builders turned from him with
        a smirk,
     And farmers hurried by him to house the harvest's
        yield.
     And so he took his dagger, all rusted, and his shield,
     And sought again the highway where thieves and
        jackals lurk.

     And yet the spark of manhood still flamed within his
        heart,
     And still he saw the Baby, beyond the stable door;
     And oftentimes at even, as crimson daytime died,
     He knelt, a sorry figure, from all of life apart.
     And, "Oh, if I could see Him—and feel His love
        once more,
     "If I could see Him smiling, I would not steal!" he
        cried.

     V.

     It was a glowing ruby that caused the thief to fall,
     But—he was very hungry, and lonely, too, and cold;
     And youth lay all behind him, a tattered funeral
        pall,
     For he was very tired, and he was growing old.
     It was a glowing ruby that lay upon the breast
     Of one who had not earned it, who wore it with a
        sneer;
     The thief was very weary, he only longed for rest;
     He was too wan for caring, he was too numb for fear!

     It was a glowing ruby—he held it in his hand—
     His hand was thin and withered, it shook beneath
        the gem;
     He took the vivid ruby, the ransom of a land,
     And tied it firmly, tightly, within his garment's hem;
     And then he shuffled forward, but like a thorn
        within
     His soul he bore the torment of bitterness and sin!

     VI.

     They caught him when the morning had tinged the
        Eastern skies;
     The gem was found upon him, as red as guilty blood;
     He stood, his head sunk forward, with listless, shal-
        low eyes,
     And hopelessness submerged him like some unholy
        flood;
     A Thief he was by calling.  The law?  The law
        was great;
     What chance had he for pity?  His fate was sealed
        and done;
     He was unclean, an outcast, a menace to the state;
     A thing to be avoided, a stain against the sun!

     They led him to his hearing, the hall was still and
        light;
     A judge was seated higher, who passed him with a
        glance;
     And suddenly, forgetting his weariness and fright,
     The thief cried, leaping forward, "I did not have a
        chance!"
     The judgment hall was spacious, and coldly white
        and wide—
     And coldly came the sentence—"He shall be crucified!"

     VII.

     They nailed him, God's creation, upon a cross of
        shame;
     They nailed him up with laughter, they heeded not
        his tears;
     And people looking at him were moved to soulless
        jeers,
     And agony was on him—a searing, breathless flame!
     And then, as he hung sobbing, a sudden feeling came
     Of peace that, reaching toward him across the sound
        of sneers,
     Was like a burst of music that one more feels than
        hears—
     For, from somewhere beside him, a Voice had
        breathed his name.

     Ah, he was weak with anguish, and yet he turned his
        head,
     And saw a cross beside him, and on the cross a Form;
     And he forgot the tumult, the horror and the storm—
     And someone, down below him, said, "Look, the thief
        is dead!"
     But, safe from fear and torture beyond their scornful cries,
     The thief had gazed at Heaven in Christ's triumphant
        eyes!

     If I might go with my True Love,
        To some far, dream-swept land,
     I'd be content to sit all day
        Upon the silver sand,
     And watch the sea come creeping in,
        The sighing, singing sea—
     If I might go to some far land,
        And take True Love with me!

     If I could go with my True Love,
        To some far, lonely place;
     The world might well be lost, and I
        Could look upon Love's face.
     And wealth would seem a little thing,
        While happiness might be—
     If I could go to some far land,
        And take True Love with me.

     Ah, Love would smile, and ruffle up,
        The hair above my brow;
     And we would laugh at all that seems
        So very sober, now.
     And monkey-folk, and scarlet birds,
        Would peer from every tree,
     And try to understand the words
        My True Love said to me!

     If I might go with my True Love,
        To some far, dream-swept land;
     I would not miss the world, for I
        Could always touch Love's hand,
     And feel the magic of his lips—
        Oh, by the singing sea,
     And Eden-place would bloom a-new
        For my True Love and me!

           I KNOW HOW MARY FELT, THERE IN THE HAY,
           MY LITTLE SON WAS BORN ON CHRISTMAS DAY!

     I know, as she bent tenderly above Him,
        She did not think of majesty or power,
     For he was hers—and she was there to love Him!
        His hands, as pinkly tinted as a flower,
     Seemed all too small to carve His deathless story—
        What though a star gleamed glorious to guide
           Him?
        She snatched Him to her breast as if to hide Him
     From harm, and fear, and even—yes, from glory.

     And when the wise men came to give their treasure,
        She smiled at them as proud as any queen;
     She scarcely saw the jewels in countless measure,
        The gold that gleamed; her gaze was far, serene,
     Upon the hills where shepherds watched, alone.
        She did not think of crosses or of dying,
        For He was just a drowsy baby, lying
     Wrapped in her love—A baby—all her own!

           I KNOW HOW MARY FELT, THERE IN THE HAY,
           MY LITTLE SON WAS BORN ON CHRISTMAS DAY!

     God put a song into my heart one day,
        A little song as light as ocean form,
        A little song of love and hope and home,
     A little song to cheer me on my way.

     And though I bowed beneath the load I bore,
        I found that, when I sang, the way was bright,
        And that my footsteps swifter grew, and light;
     And all my life seemed fairer than before.

     God has a song that fits in every heart,
        And though that song may seem a tiny thing,
        It is your task—so forge ahead, and SING—
     And you will find that you have done your part!

     He came to call last night—
     And we began to talk, as young folk will,
     Half carelessly, and half in awe, of God.
     It was the springtime, and the night was still
     And fragrant, all about us.
                                  And the sod
     Was fresh with tender grass,
     And overhead a crescent moon shone bright.
     And, "God," he said, "Has built the world on laws,
     "Like some great watch, and every breathing space
     "Is measured; and the system has no flaws,
     "And nothing moves from its appointed place.
     "God is the Master Scientist," he said,
     His voice was bold and had a ring of truth—
     But God seemed ponderous, and far away....

     And then a gentle breeze danced overhead,
     And caused the timid, new-born leaves to sway,
     And we began to talk of love, and youth.

     And then, I sent him home, and went upstairs,
     To my still room, and flung the windows wide;
     And as I knelt to say my evening prayers
     I saw the stars, far smiling, in the sky.
     And, all at once, I knew the reason why
     I worshipped God... knew why He had sent
     His son to save the world from sin and shame;
     And, suddenly, like some sweet, healing tide,
     The meaning of my life swept over me;
     And, through the dark, my groping soul could see
     The Christ Who loved us, and was crucified.

     And, as I knelt and watched the star's faint shine,
     I felt God's hand, a moment, touching mine!

     You took the lilt from my heart of hearts,
        And the breath of song from my soul;
     And the mind of me that had once been free
        And buoyantly young, and whole;
     Grew calm and still as a barren sea,
        Where never a star beam shone,
     A sea where never a ripple danced—
        That reflected your face along.

     I walked in a daze down well-worn paths—
        Paths that your feet had trod;
     I thought your thoughts and I spoke your tongue,
        I knelt to your hostile God.
     And the dreams that had been a part of me,
        I tossed with a sigh away,
     And left to rust in the misty dust
        Of the land called Yesterday.

     My hands lay folded in slim repose,
        Quite as you bade them rest;
     Folded, meek, o'er the leaden heart
        That tortured my gypsie breast.
     And I smiled with my lips—my eyes were numb—
        I smiled for I never knew,
     That the mind of me was a lifeless sea,
        Reflecting the face of you!

     You took the lilt from my carefree life,
        And the song from my singing heart;
     But there came a day when the world grew gray,
        When I knew that we must part....
     So I tore you out of your soul-bound shrine—
        And, oh, though it caused me pain,
     I raised my face to the sky and knew
        That my song would come again!

     "Barefooted came the beggar maid,"
        So ran the minstrel's lay—
     "Barefooted came the beggar maid
        "Before the King Corpethua."
     But, oh, her face was like a light,
     Her hair was black as middle night,
     And whispers ran from left to right—
        "She is more beautiful than day!"

     "In robe and crown the king stepped down,"
        So ran the minstrel's lay—
     "In robe and crown the king stepped down,
        "To meet and greet her by the way."
     And so the beggar maid became,
     A Queen, but just a queen in name,
     For, with her gypsie eyes aflame,
        Her mirror heard her say—

     I was a beggar maid, I used to lie
     Silent and unafraid, beneath the sky,
     And watch the stars—my little sisters, they,
     I used to wake at dawning time of day
     To plunge my body in some mountain stream—
     I was a beggar maid!
                           Is this a dream,
     This golden crown I wear upon my head?
     This robe of royal purple and of red,
     This rope of pearls, this ring, these silken shoon?

     Not long ago the silver crescent moon
     Was like a hand that beckoned me to stray,
     And cities seemed vast centuries away;
     And as my feet—swift feet, they were, and light—
     Carried me through the wonder of the night,
     I never thought of kings, or kingly power—
     My life was all one splendid, singing hour!

     I love my king—He raised me from the dust,
     And looked at me with wonder, and with trust;
     My hair hung, tangled, to the waist of me,
     He brushed it from my eyes, that he might see
     Deep into them!
                      He set me on his steed,
     He never knew my name, or asked my creed,
     He just believed in me—and told me so.
     I love my king, I love him well, but, oh—
     Once I wore poppies, red upon my brow,
     (A crown seems very heavy to me, now,)
     And once I wore, for all the world to see
     A gown of rags.  (Now, velvets stifle me!)
     And once my hands (how soft they are!) were strong
     To toil for me.
                      The days seem very long
     While I must sit in state above the land—
     I love my king... But does he understand?
     I was a beggar maid, I used to lie
     Silent and unafraid beneath the sky—
     And, now that I am queen, my being longs
     To hear, once more, the little slumber songs
     Of night birds nesting in some forest tree—
     I want to be myself, again, and free!
     I want to climb the crest of some great hill,
     And watch the sunset clouds, again, and thrill
     Before the color of them!  I would stand
     Alone, once more, and see the wistful land
     Take on the tint of twilight.
                                    I would pray
     My gypsie prayer, again, at close of day!

     I love my king—for he has given me
     Rare pearls, the treasure of a sighing sea,
     And rubies, red as sunset clouds a-glow
     And opals like the wistful winds that blow
     At twilight-time.

                        But I would wear, instead,
     Wild forest flowers, twined about my head—
     And I would dance, barefooted, on the sod,
     An innovation to my pagan God!

     Am I a queen?  What is this crown I wear?
     I tear it from my smoothly plaited hair—
     I lay my ring, my rope of pearls, aside;
     Am I a queen—am I a monarch's bride?
     The soul of me is still a gypsie thing—
     I pull them off, the glowing gems, the ring....

     I love my king, I love him well—but, oh,
     GIVE ME MY RAGS, AGAIN, AND LET ME GO!

     A WITHERED ROSE

     A book of verse,
     And one withered rose
     Between two pages....

     My love is as faded as the petals,
     But still faintly fragrant
     With sweet memories.

     ASHES OF LOVE

     Dust on the letters you sent me
     And I did not know that they had been forgotten.

     Does it mean that I love again?

     It's lots of fun to play around,
        To dance and sing;
     And not be tied to anyone,
        Or anything!

     It's lots of fun to live my life,
        Beneath the sky;
     To have no one who owns the right
        To question "Why"?

     It's lots of fun to come and go,
        Through storm and strife,
     With no one by my side who hopes
        To mould my life.

     (But sometimes at the twilight time,
        When night birds cry;
     I dream, perhaps, that something fair
        Has passed me by!)

     And yet—it's good to play around,
        To laugh and sing;
     And not be tied to anyone,
        Or anything!

     I wonder if you know, up there in heaven,
        That I have kept your roses, crumpled now.
     I wonder if you guess that still I treasure
        A faded ribbon that once touched your brow.
     I wonder if you dream, as dusk is falling,
        Of how I read that note you sent to me.
     I wonder if you think, up there in heaven,
        Of all the golden days that used to be.

     I wonder if you smile up there in heaven,
        And pass by, lightly, in your robes of white;
     Or if you sometimes think of me a little.
        You seem so near, so very near tonight.
     I wonder if that last shy kiss I gave you
        Can make you lonely, just a bit, for me.
     I wonder if you long, up there in heaven,
        For all the golden plans that used to be.

     Do they have valentines up there in heaven?
        A love like mine is surely strong to go
     The little way from earth to where you wait me,
        Although it be beyond the stars' faint glow.
     I want you dear; my tired heart is calling;
        My eyes are searching, though they may not see;
     I wonder if you're lonely, there in heaven,
        For all the golden dreams that used to be.

     I started out in a cloak of pride,
     With talent, too, that I did not hide;
     I started out on Life's stony road,
     Ambition's weight was my only load,
     And the way seemed fair in the dawn's first glow,
     And I hurried—ran—FOR I DID NOT KNOW!

     Love smiled from a garden by the way,
     And called to me, but I would not stray
     From the road that stretched like a ribbon white,
     Up endless hills to an endless night.
     Love smiled at me, but I pushed ahead,
     And love fell back in the garden—dead—
     But I did not care as I hastened by,
     And I did not pause for regret or sigh....
     The road before was a path of hope,
     And every hill with its gentle slope
     Led up to heights I had dreamed and prayed
     To reach some day—
                           Ah!  I might have stayed
     With Love and Youth in the garden gay,
     That smiled at me from beside the way.

     I plodded up, and the gentle hills
     Grew hard to climb, and the laughing rills
     Were torrents peopled with sodden forms;
     The sky grew black with the threat of storms,
     And rocks leaped out and they bruised my feet,
     And faint I grew in the fever heat.
     (But ever on led the path that lay
     As grey as dust in the waning day.)
     My back was bent, and my heart was sore,
     And the cloak of pride that I grandly wore
     Was rent and patched and not fair to see—
     Ambition, talent, seemed naught to me....
     But I struggled on 'till I reached the top,
     FOR ONLY THEN DID I DARE TO STOP!

     I stood on the summit gazing down,
     And the earth looked sordid and dull and brown,
     And neutral-tinted and neutral-souled;
     And all of life seemed a story told,
     And the only spot that was bright to see
     Was a patch of green that had bloomed for me
     Where a garden lived in a spring long fled,
     When Love stood smiling—
                                 BUT LOVE WAS DEAD!

     Your room is still the dainty little place,
        That used to seem so much a part of you—
        The draperies of faded rose and blue
     Still hold a shadow of their former grace.
     The windows still are hung with frosty lace,
        And sometimes, when the moonlight glimmers
           through,
        I watch your mirror, half expecting to
     See once again, reflected there, your face!

     And yet, the little room seems much too neat,
        It seems quite colorless, and very bare,
        Because the filmy things you used to wear
     Are laid away.  Because the perfume sweet
        That clung about you has been swept aside....
        Your room is there—but, oh, its soul has died!

     I wonder if you ever dream of other days,
     Because, sometimes, at twilight when the sunset
        plays
     Half wistfully across the polished oaken floor,
     I see you smiling—standing in your place once more.

     (Do you remember little things we used to say?
     They wouldn't mean so very much to us to-day....
     Do you remember how I wore a gown of blue,
     Because it brought the haze of autumn clouds to you?
     Do you remember how I said you didn't care—
     And how you laughed at me and rumpled up my
        hair?
     Do you remember how the tears stood in my eyes
     At your good-by when darkness overhung the skies?)

     I wonder if you ever dream of other days?
     Because, sometimes at twilight when the sunset plays
     Half wistfully across your empty cozy-chair,
     I turn and half expect to see you smiling there!

     THIS IS TO YOU, DEAR,
     TO YOU, UNKNOWING;
     JUST AS THE SOUTH WIND
     WISTFULLY BLOWING
     TOUCHES SOME FLOWER—

     SO IS MY SONG, DEAR,
     THROUGH EVERY HOUR,
     ALL THE DAY LONG, DEAR,
     TO YOU, UNKNOWING!

     You came to me through the candlelight,
     When the world, outside, was grey....
     You came to me through the candlelight
     When the day was done, and the misty night
     Crept through the land.
                              And your eyes were bright,
     And they seemed to laugh and pray.
     You came to me through the candlelight,
     And you took my hands, and you held them tight,
     And you didn't speak, but, dear, I KNEW—
     And my heart and my soul were part of you.

     You came to me through the candlelight,
     When the world, outside, was grey;
     And I looked in your eyes and, glowing there,
     I saw a hope and I read a prayer;
     And I knew, at last, that I didn't care,
     If life were a troubled, weary way,
     As long as I walked with you.
     You came to me, at the close of day,
     Through the candlelight—when the world was grey—
     And dreams of Heaven seemed strangely new....
     And I told you, dear, to stay!

     There are such weary little lines about the mouth of
        you,
     Such tragic little mirthless lines—they mock at
        dreams come true,
     And twist your lips when you would smile, until all
        joy is dead,
     And I, who want to laugh with you, am fain to
        weep instead!

     There are such dreary little lines about the mouth of
        you,
     They make me want to whisper that summer sky is
        blue,
     And that the rain is like a lance of silver through
        the air,
     And that the flowers in the lane are growing tall
        and fair!

     There are such tired little lines about the mouth of
        you—
     As if you thought that life was cold and loving
        friends were few....
     They are such lonely little lines I think that I, some
        day,
     Will creep close to you in the dusk, and kiss them
        quite away!

     1.

     The flowers spring from the broken heart,
        Of the frozen winter sod—
     Rending their prison bars apart,
        They smile in the face of God!

     The birds sweep up to the wind-blown plain,
        E'er ever the land knows spring;
     To sway on a budding branch again,
        To challenge the world, and sing!

     And I with my tired eyes a-dance,
        And my weary heart a-flame;
     Have felt the call of the old romance,
        And thrilled to a whispered name!

     2.

     I saw a sky as blue as eyes I know,
     I felt a breeze, as soft as kisses, blow;
        And, dear, I saw one golden sunbeam creep
     From Heaven, lighting all the world below,
        Like love that wakens, dewy-eyed, from sleep!

     3.

     We who have wondered know the answer, now;
     For Spring stands, joyous, on the purple brow
     Of the far hill; and doubt is swept away,
     And all the mirth-mad world makes holiday!

     We who have wandered long, and half afraid,
     Find answer in each dreaming woodland glade;
     HEARTS THAT HAVE BROKEN MAY BE BOUND TOGETHER,
     WHEN SPRING HAS TRIUMPHED OVER WINTER WEATHER!

     Starlight, and the silver lake
           Clasp the skies—
     And two nearer, dearer stars,
           Your eyes!

     Elfin voices seem to call
           Through the night,
     But your arms are warm, and they
           Hold me tight.

     Pallidly the moon slides down,
           Hour by hour slips;
     Ah, the deathless magic of
           Your lips!

     Dark the shadows as we creep
           Past the shore—
     Dear, that we might drift like this
           Evermore!

     Now that the day is done I am ready to greet you,
        Smiling, the way that I know you would have me
           smile;
     I will open the door, and will run down the walk
           to meet you,
        As if I had missed you, dear, for a weary while!
     I will listen, breathless, the while you tell of your
           toiling,
        All day long in the dust and the city's heat;
     And, dear, you will never know that my blood is
           boiling—
        Back of the smile that is calm and tenderly sweet.

     You will never know that the soul of me, dear, is
           flying,
        Out where the seagull dips in the ocean's foam;
     You will never know that something of me is dying,
        Every night as I smile and welcome you home.
     You will never know that my heart is soaring above
           you—
        You will be content with my mask of a smile—
           KNOWING I LOVE YOU!

     I do not want to be worshipped,
     From a distance;
     Like some idol carved in wood,
     Or stone.
     I want to be loved
     As every real woman
     Wants to be loved!

     And so....
     Lay aside the book that you are reading from—
     What if Leander did swim the Hellespont?
     And what if burning Sappho
     Did sing?
     What do I care for
     Launcelot and Elaine,
     Or Tristram and Isolt,
     Or Aucassin and Nicholette?

     Lay aside the book that you are reading from,
     And cross the room quickly,
     And take my cold hands between your two
     Warmer ones....
     And here, in the vivid dusk,
     We will make our own love songs!

     All day long I waited—waited with soul aflame—
     And then through the still of evening, humming a
        tune, you came;
     Came with a jest on your smiling lips, and eyes that
        were all too gay;
     And the light died out of my waiting heart with the
        words that I could not say.

     We laughed through the star-flecked twilight—what
        though my laugh was strained?
     You, who were there beside me, laughed with a mirth
        unfeigned!
     And at last when I bade you leave me you went, and
        you never knew
     That with soul aflame I had waited, all through the
        day, for you.

     Dear, you are like the summer dusk to me,
     The summer dusk when all the world seems still;
     When purple shadows creep along the hill,
     And birds are softly crooning in each tree.
     You are the gentle-cool-eyed mystery
     Of twilight hours.  Sometime I think you will
     Melt from me out into the dark, until
     You turn to star-shine, silvering the sea.

     Dear, even when your head is on my breast,
     You seem no nearer than a moonbeam thrown
     Across my heart.  Your fingers have caressed
     My hair so lightly that I scarce have known
     Their pressure.  You are like that time when rest
     Steals up so softly that one feels alone!

     Seeing you once, how can I forget
     That our eyes have smiled and our hands have met?
     That our souls have known and our hearts have cried,
     Though our lips were dumb.
                                 Ah, the world is wide,
     And love there is for us both to know—
     But my eyes were dim as I watched you go!

     You may wander far, you may come no more,
     But you hold the key to the inmost door
     Of my heart of hearts!
                                 For our hands have met,
     And our eyes have smiled, and I CAN'T FORGET!

     I.  THE COMING

     I know that Love will come to me, some day,
        Though I have never loved, or looked on Love;
     I know that Love will wait beside the way
        And smile at me.  The tender skies above
     Will be alight with all the joy of spring,
        And flowers will life their heads above the earth,
     And some far bird will stay its flight and sing,
        And fill the land with silver throated mirth.

     I know that Love, at last, with smiling eyes,
        Will pause beside my half-swung cottage door,
     And I will lift my gaze, without surprise,
        To see his shadow dance across the floor.
     I know that Love will come to me, some day,
     When springtime blossoms, shyly, into May!

     II.  REALIZATION

     I know that you are not the one that I
        Should fall in love with, for your eyes are blind
        To all the things that make my world the kind
     I want to live in.  Often, when I cry
     At some vague beauty that has caught my eye,
        You laugh!  You cannot dream the dreams I find,
        In forest places where dim pathways wind
     Up to the Heaven-land so far and high.

     I know that I should never learn to care,
        And yet, sometimes the blueness of your eyes
        Can make me half forget the smiling skies....
     And, when I see the sunlight on your hair,
     I do not stop to reason, dear, for oh—
     My heart throbs faster, and I know—I know!

     You close beside me, and outside, the rain,
        Which, stealing through the darkness of the night,
        Seems tapping out with fingers softly light,
     A world-old song upon my window pane—
     A song of happiness with a refrain
        That throbs in suffering.  You hold me tight,
        Your eyes, that search my own, are warmly bright,
     Your lips touch mine again, and yet again!

     Ah, what though years must pass, though you and I
        May live our lives, quite silently, apart?
     Whenever rain comes, when the day is through,
     And, tapping on my casement, seems to sigh,
        A dream will blossom, fragrant, in my heart,
     A dream of youth eternal, and of—you.

     I used to write so many songs of love—
        I wrote them carefully, I did not know
     That love was more than moonlight from above,
        And pretty words set in an even row,
     I held my pencil calmly in my hand,
        And sang of arms and lips and tender eyes;
     I wrote of love—who did not understand—
        And hoped that folk would think me very wise!

     I used to write so many songs... To-day
        My hands are folded, and I cannot sing,
     I sit, instead, and watch the sunlight stray
        Across my desk.  And I am wondering
     If God, who lights a million stars each night,
     Laughed at the groping words I tried to write!

     I wonder if, dim centuries ago,
        We watched the moon together, on some night
        When stars hung very near, and softly bright?
     I wonder if my tired head drooped low
     Against your breast?  And if you seemed to know
        (As you know now) the dreams that, like a light,
        Shone in my soul?  For, dear, it seems so right—
     So very right that you should hold me so!

     Here, in the moonlight, there is nothing new,
        The very arms that crush me to your heart,
        Seem almost like a memory, a part
     Of some vague yesterday that has come true—
        I feel tonight as if I, dear, might start
     A journey back, across the years, with you!

     You left me when the weary weight of sorrow
        Lay, like a stone, upon my bursting heart;
     It seemed as if no shimmering tomorrow
        Could dry the tears that you had caused to start.
     You left me, never telling why you wandered—
        Without a word, without a last caress;
     Left me with but the love that I had squandered,
        The husks of love and a vast loneliness.

     And yet if you came back with arms stretched toward
           me,
        Came back to-night, with carefree, smiling eyes,
     And said: "My journeying has somehow bored me,
        And love, though broken, never, never dies!"
     I would forget the wounded heart you gave me,
        I would forget the bruises on my soul.
     My old-time gods would rise again to save me,
        My dreams would grow supremely new and whole.
     What though youth lay, a tattered garment, o'er you?
        Warm words would leap upon my lips, long dumb;
     If you came back, with arms stretched out before
           you,
        AND TOLD ME, DEAR, THAT YOU WERE GLAD TO COME!

     Sometimes a mist of sunlight across a stranger's hair,
        Sometimes the vague expression upon a stranger's
           face,
        Can make me feel your presence—can fill a lonely
           place
     With dreams of life half realized.  Faint music
           through the air
     Can make me hear your foot-fall, again, upon the
           stair—
        Sometimes a dancer moving with quite unconscious
           grace,
        Can make my pulse beat faster; and for a breathless
           space
     Can make me turn, expecting to find you standing
           there!

     You have not gone!  The passing of every empty
           day
        Has only brought you nearer.  Those things that
           were a part
     Of all we planned together are bits of you that stay,
        To bruise my soul as sharply as any flame-tipped
           dart.
     Ah, time may hold its healing—but years that pass
           away
        Cannot erase the writing you traced upon my
           heart!

     Love of my life, the time has come for parting—
        For, dearest, I must leave you while we care!
     Leave you while tears of vain regret are starting,
        While I can look at you and find you fair.
     Could we endure a morn of bitter waking,
        Could we accept a love that would seem less?
     Dear, I must go the while my heart is breaking—
        Go while my world is filled with happiness.

     Love of my soul, our dream has been so flaming,
        That, if we waited, it might smoulder down—
     Leaving dead ashes only, ashes shaming
        All that was vivid—ashes dimly brown.
     We will have memories as sweet as flowers,
        We who have left, untouched, Fate's cup of woe;
     Kiss me once more to bridge life's aching hours—
        Love of my heart—the time has come to go!

     WHEN I AM OLD—

     When I am old and drenched in worlds of sadness,
        And wear a lacy cap upon my head;
     When, looking past the future's singing gladness,
        I linger, wistful, in the years long dead.
     When I am old, and young folk all about me,
        Speak softly of religion, WHEN THEY SPEAK,
     When parties are a grand success without me;
        And when my laugh is fluttering and weak—

     Will I then be content to raise my glances,
        Serenely to the cloud-entangled sky?
     And will I be content to watch at dances,
        Without a heartbreak, as the hours pass by?
     Or when I see young lovers' fingers twine,
     WILL I REMEMBER, DEAR, YOUR LIPS ON MINE?