Volume Ii Part 42 (2/2)
And glance to glance, and hand to hand in greeting, The past with all its fears, Its silences and tears, Its lonely, yearning years, Shall vanish in the moment of that meeting.
Nora Perry [1832-1896]
THE TELEPHONE
”When I was just as far as I could walk From here to-day, There was an hour All still When leaning with my head against a flower I heard you talk.
Don't say I didn't, for I heard you say-- You spoke from that flower on the window sill-- Do you remember what it was you said?”
”First tell me what it was you thought you heard.”
”Having found the flower and driven a bee away, I leaned my head, And holding by the stalk, I listened and I thought I caught the word-- What was it? Did you call me by my name?
Or did you say-- Someone said 'Come'--I heard it as I bowed.”
”I may have thought as much, but not aloud.”
”Well, so I came.”
Robert Frost [1875-
WHERE LOVE IS
By the rosy cliffs of Devon, on a green hill's crest, I would build me a house as a swallow builds its nest; I would curtain it with roses, and the wind should breathe to me The sweetness of the roses and the saltness of the sea.
Where the Tuscan olives whiten in the hot blue day, I would hide me from the heat in a little hut of gray, While the singing of the husbandmen should scale my lattice green From the golden rows of barley that the poppies blaze between.
Narrow is the street, Dear, and dingy are the walls Wherein you wait my coming as the twilight falls.
All day with dreams I gild the grime till at your step I start-- Ah Love, my country in your arms--my home upon your heart!
Amelia Josephine Burr [1878-
THAT DAY YOU CAME
Such special sweetness was about That day G.o.d sent you here, I knew the lavender was out, And it was mid of year.
Their common way the great winds blew, The s.h.i.+ps sailed out to sea; Yet ere that day was spent I knew Mine own had come to me.
As after song some s.n.a.t.c.h of tune Lurks still in gra.s.s or bough, So, somewhat of the end o' June Lurks in each weather now.
The young year sets the buds astir, The old year strips the trees; But ever in my lavender I hear the brawling bees.
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