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AN AFTERNOON
I am stirred by the dream of an afternoon
Of a perfect day–though it was not June;
The lilt of winds, and the droning tune
That a busy city was humming.
And a bronze-brown head, and lips like wine
Leaning out through the window-vine
A-list for steps that were maybe mine -
Eager steps that were coming.
I can see it all, as a dreamer may -
The tender smile on your lips that day,
And the glow on your cheek as we rode away
Into the golden weather.
And a love-light shone in your eyes of brown -
I swear there did!–as we drove down
The crowded avenue out of the town,
Through shadowy lanes, together:
Drove out into the sunset-skies
That glowed with wonderful crimson dyes;
And with soul and spirit, and heart and eyes,
We silently drank their splendour.
But the golden glory that lit the place
Was not alone from the sunset’s grace -
For I saw in your fair, uplifted face
A light that was wondrously tender.
I say I saw it. And yet to-day
I ask myself, in a cynical way,
Was it only a part you had learned to play,
To see me act the lover?
And I curse myself for a fool. And yet
I would willingly die without one regret
Could I bring back the day whose sun has set -
And you–and live it over.
TO MARRY OR NOT TO MARRY?
A GIRL’S REVERIE
Mother says, “Be in no hurry,
Marriage oft means care and worry.”
Auntie says, with manner grave,
“Wife is synonym for slave.”
Father asks, in tones commanding,
“How does Bradstreet rate his standing?”
Sister crooning to her twins,
Sighs, “With marriage care begins.”
Grandma, near life’s closing days,
Murmurs, “Sweet are girlhood’s ways.”
Maud, twice widowed (”sod and grass”)
Looks at me and moans “Alas!”
They are six, and I am one,
Life for me has just begun.
They are older, calmer, wiser:
Age should aye be youth’s adviser.
They must know–and yet, dear me,
When in Harry’s eyes I see
All the world of love there burning -
On my six advisers turning,
I make answer, “Oh, but Harry
Is not like most men who marry.
“Fate has offered me a prize,
Life with love means Paradise.
“Life without it is not worth
All the foolish joys of earth.”
So, in spite of all they say,
I shall name the wedding day.
MY HOME
This is the place that I love the best,
A little brown house like a ground-bird’s nest,
Hid among grasses, and vines, and trees,
Summer retreat of the birds and bees.
The tenderest light that ever was seen
Sifts through the vine-made window screen -
Sifts and quivers, and flits and falls
On home-made carpets and gray-hung walls.
All through June, the west wind free
The breath of the clover brings to me.
All through the languid July day
I catch the scent of the new-mown hay.
The morning glories and scarlet vine
Over the doorway twist and twine;
And every day, when the house is still,
The humming-bird comes to the window-sill.
In the cunningest chamber under the sun
I sink to sleep when the day is done;
And am waked at morn, in my snow-white bed,
By a singing-bird on the roof o’erhead.
Better than treasures brought from Rome
Are the living pictures I see at home -
My aged father, with frosted hair,
And mother’s face like a painting rare
Far from the city’s dust and heat,
I get but sounds and odours sweet.
Who can wonder I love to stay,
Week after week, here hidden away,
In this sly nook that I love the best -
The little brown house, like a ground-bird’s nest?