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Chapter 205 : Irene Rutherford McLeod [1891- LOVE AND LIFE "Give me a fillet, Love," quoth

Irene Rutherford McLeod [1891-

LOVE AND LIFE

"Give me a fillet, Love," quoth I, "To bind my Sweeting's heart to me, So ne'er a chance of earth or sky Shall part us ruthlessly: A fillet, Love, but not to chafe My Sweeting's soul, to cause her pain; But just to bind her close and safe Through snow and blossom and sun and rain: A fillet, boy!"

Love said, "Here's joy."

"Give me a fetter, Life," quoth I, "To bind to mine my Sweeting's heart, So Death himself must fail to pry With Time the two apart: A fetter, Life, that each shall wear, Whose precious bondage each shall know.

I prithee, Life, no more forbear-- Why dost thou wait and falter so?

Haste, Life--be brief!"

Said Life:--"Here's grief."

Julie Mathilde Lippman [1864-

LOVE'S PRISONER

Sweet love has twined his fingers in my hair, And laid his hand across my wondering eyes.

I cannot move save in the narrow s.p.a.ce Of his strong arms' embrace, Nor see but only in my own heart where His image lies.

How can I tell, Emprisoned so well, If in the outer world be sunset or sunrise?

Sweet Love has laid his hand across my eyes.

Sweet Love has loosed his fingers from my hair, His lifted hand has left my eyelids wet.

I cannot move save to pursue his fleet And unreturning feet, Nor see but in my ruined heart, and there His face lies yet.

How should I know, Distraught and blinded so, If in the outer world be sunrise or sunset?

Sweet Love has freed my eyes, but they are wet.

Mariana Griswold Van Rensselaer [1851-1934]

ROSIES

There's a rosie-show in Derry, An' a rosie-show in Down; An' 'tis like there's wan, I'm thinkin', 'll be held in Randalstown; But if I had the choosin'

Av a rosie-prize the day, 'Twould be a pink wee rosie Like he plucked whin rakin' hay: Yon pink wee rosie in my hair-- He fixed it troth--an' kissed it there!

White gulls wor wheelin' roun' the sky Down by--down by.

Ay, there's rosies sure in Derry, An' there's famous wans in Down; Och there's rosies all a-hawkin'

Through the heart av London town!

But if I had the liftin'

Or the buyin' av a few, I'd choose jist pink wee rosies That's all drenchin' wid the dew-- Yon pink wee rosies wid the tears!

Och wet, wet tears!--ay, troth, 'tis years Since we kep' rakin' in the hay Thon day--thon day!

Agnes I. Hanrahan [18

AT THE COMEDY

Last night, in snowy gown and glove, I saw you watch the play Where each mock hero won his love In the old unlifelike way.

(And, oh, were life their little scene Where love so smoothly ran, How different, Dear, this world had been Since this old world began!)

For you, who saw them gayly win Both hand and heart away, Knew well where dwelt the mockery in That foolish little play.

("If love were all--if love were all,"

The viols sobbed and cried, "Then love were best whate'er befall!"

Low, low, the flutes replied.)

And you, last night, did you forget, So far from me, so near?

For watching there your eyes were wet With just an idle tear!

(And down the great dark curtain fell Upon their foolish play: But you and I knew--Oh, too well!-- Life went another way!)

Arthur Stringer [1874-

"SOMETIME IT MAY BE"

Sometime it may be you and I In that deserted yard shall lie Where memories fade away; Caring no more for our old dreams, Busy with new and alien themes, The saints and sages say.

But let our graves be side by side, So pa.s.sers-by at even-tide May pause a moment's s.p.a.ce: "Ah, they were lovers who lie here!

Else why these low graves laid so near, In this forgotten place?"

Arthur Colton [1868-

"I HEARD A SOLDIER"

I heard a soldier sing some trifle Out in the sun-dried veldt alone: He lay and cleaned his grimy rifle Idly, behind a stone.

"If after death, love, comes a waking, And in their camp so dark and still The men of dust hear bugles, breaking Their halt upon the hill.

"To me the slow and silver pealing That then the last high trumpet pours Shall softer than the dawn come stealing, For, with its call, comes yours!"

What grief of love had he to stifle, Basking so idly by his stone, That grimy soldier with his rifle Out in the veldt, alone?

Herbert Trench [1865-1923]