She knew not those sweet words she spake, But there's never a bird, so sweet a song Oh, there were flowers in Storrington Her beauty smoothed earth's furrowed face! A look, a word of her winsome mouth, A berry red, a guileless look, A still word,-strings of sand! And yet they made my wild, wild heart For standing artless as the air, She took the berries with her hand, The fairest things have fleetest end: But the rose's scent is bitterness She looked a little wistfully, Then went her sunshine way: The sea's eye had a mist on it, And the leaves fell from the day. She went her unremembering way, She went and left in me And partings yet to be. To Petronilla She left me marveling why my soul Was sad that she was glad; At all the sadness in the sweet, The sweetness in the sad. Still, still I seemed to see her, still And take the berries with her hand, Nothing begins, and nothing ends, And perish in our own. 343 Francis Thompson [1859?-1907] TO PETRONILLA WHO HAS PUT UP HER HAIR YESTERDAY it blew alway, Yesterday is dead, Now forever must it stay Coiled about your head, Tell me Whence the great Command Hitherward has sped. "Silly boy, as if I knew," Petronilla said. Nay, but I am very sure, Since you left my side, You are fain to hide, Homage has been done to you, Innocents have died. "Silly boy, and what of that?" Petronilla cried. Petronilla, much I fear Scarcely have you wept All those merry yesterdays, Slain to bind that pretty crown Closer round your head. "Silly boy, as if I cared," Petronilla said. Henry Howarth Bashford [1880 THE GYPSY GIRL PASSING I saw her as she stood beside Henry Alford [1810-1871) FANNY A SOUTHERN BLOSSOM COME and see her as she stands, And her eyes Are as dark as Southern night, Yet than Southern dawn more bright, And a soft, alluring light In them lies. None deny if she beseech Of the South. All her consonants are slurred, Even Cupid is her slave; Somebody's Child 345 Her one day In a merry, playful hour. Dowered with these and beauty's dower, Strong indeed her magic power,' So they say. Venus, not to be outdone By her generous little son, Very like to Cupid's bow. Lack-a-day! Our North can show In the South! Anne Reeve Aldrich [1866-1892] SOMEBODY'S CHILD JUST a picture of Somebody's child,- Violet eyes, and cheeks of rose, Tender eyes where the shadows sleep, Scarlet lips with a story to tell,— Blessed be he who shall find it out, Who shall learn the eyes' deep secret well, Then you will tremble, scarlet lips, Then you will crimson, loveliest cheeks: But she's only a child now, as you see, Louise Chandler Moulton [1835-1908] EMILIA HALFWAY up the Hemlock valley turnpike, Flower of the fields of Camlet Farm. Sitting sewing by the western window. Shadowing her gray, enchanted eyes? When the freshets flood the Silver Water, When the swallow flying northward braves Sleeting rains that sweep the birchen foothills Where the windflowers' pale plantation waves— (Fairy gardens Springing from the dead leaves in their graves),— Falls forgotten, then, Emilia's needle; Ancient ballads, fleeting through her brain, Seems to brighten through the gusty rain. Forth she goes, in some old dress and faded, Kilted are her skirts to clear the mosses, Of the damsel-errant Rosalind. While she helps to serve the harvest supper In her ear the airy voices call. |