O Heart of all the shining day,
The green earth's still Delight,
Thou Freshness in the morning wind,
Thou Silence of the night,
Thou Beauty of our temple-walls,
Thou Strength within the stone, —
What is it we can offer thee
That is not first thine own?

Old memories throng: we think of those
Awhile with us who trod,
Whose hands yet lift within our lives, —
We called them " Gift of God:"
And thine these shinings in our thought,
This eager, love-wrought hope,
This deathless faith they wait and watch

The sultry heaviness of the burning night
Choked us with longing for the future day,
As bathed in sweat and feigning love we lay
Embraced beneath the jet of feeble light.

At length the birds began and their delight
Mocked us. They sang, while we could only pray
For respite as with infinite delay
The skies beyond the chimney-tops grew bright.

The shafts of sunlight entered and the rain
Of kisses ended with the need to feign,
Sundered the arms that strained, the lips that clove.

With useless words we parted. Through the street

— O William! — she cried, — strew no blossoms of spring,
For the new — apparatus — might rust;
But say that a handful of shavings you 'll bring,
And linger to see me combust.

— Oh, promise me, love, by the fire-hole you 'll watch;
And when mourners and stokers convene,
You will see that they light me some solemn, slow match,
And warn them against kerosene.

— It would cheer me to know, ere these rude breezes waft
My essences far to the pole,
That one whom I love will look to the draught,
And have a fond eye on the coal.

Today, grown rich with what I late have won,
Across the dusk I reach my hand to you.
Cold as a leaf long pillowed on a stone
Your hand takes mine, like something strange and new.
So soon grown careless? … No, for in your eyes
A tenderness still lives, half-shy, half-bold …
Then sudden wisdom to my trouble cries:
I know you still my love, but not the old.
That which I loved and won now all is gone;
She was an hour, a moment, a swift mood,—
Vanished forever into deeps unknown,—
And a new creature rules your brain and blood.

A TASTE Francesco Petrarch had
For dialects, and leeks, and verses,
Though Laura was his best-known fad
But Laura loved her Husband (Curses!)

Through twenty long and tragic years
That burned Francesco's soul like acid —
(He melted several Alps with tears) —
Laura remained at home ... quite placid.

She loved her Husband, Laura did:
Please fix that vital fact securely.
When Petrarch called her " Heavenly kid! "

Why dost thou say thou lov'st me now,
And yet proclam'st it is too late,
When bound by folly, or by Fate,
Thou can'st no further grace allow?

Repeat no more that killing Voice,
Thou beauteous Victrice of my heart;
Or find a way to ease my smart,
Maugre thy now repented choice.

'Tis not too late to love, and do
What Love and Nature prompt thee to,
Whilst thus thou tryumph'st in thy prime;

Thou may'st discreetly love, and use
Those Pleasures thou did'st once refuse:
But to profess it were a Crime.

How shall I know myself when I have come
To that strange land beyond the sea of death,
Ere the first voice that speaks with heavenly breath
Shall, out of all the sweet and murmurous hum,
Call me by name? How know ere I am known
That I am he who once in other spheres
Drank to the lees so many golden years
And called so many loving hearts my own?
Doubtless, my God, in ways I cannot guess,
Thou wilt reveal me to my doubting sense;
But, O my love, the sign that most shall bless,
And bring the swiftest, surest confidence,

O LOVE Divine, of all that is
The sweetest still and best,
Fain would I come and rest to-night
Upon Thy tender breast.

As tired of sin as any child
Was ever tired of play,
When evening's hush has folded in
The noises of the day;

When just for very weariness
The little one will creep
Into the arms that have no joy
Like holding him in sleep;

And looking upward to Thy face,
So gentle, sweet and strong
In all its looks for those who love,
So pitiful of wrong,

I pray Thee turn me not away,

For years I've dreamed the sweetest dream:—
A baby's little form
Is cuddled close against my breast,
Its tiny body warm.
Its little hand clings tight to mine,
Confiding to be led;
Its childish prattle, laugh and fun
Quite fill the years ahead.

I catch my breath and face the fact:
No baby's little-form,
Will ever nestle close to me,
Its tiny body warm;
No little hands will cling to mine,
Confiding to be led,
I look into the future—
The lonely years ahead;

My throat contracts, I feel the ache,

A KITTEN , crying in the cold,
A mongrel pup, astray,
A baby wailing, motherless,
Love hears along the way.

But Love will take the kitten home,
The mongrel gone astray —
The baby lacking pedigree,
For Love will find a way.

Love will not flee self-sacrifice,
Be chances what they may;
But-follows when the good Heart leads,
True Love must win the day.