Volume Ii Part 150 (1/2)

Amid the fairest things that grow My lady hath her dwelling-place; Where runnels flow, and frail buds blow As shy and pallid as her face.

The wild, bright creatures of the wood About her fearless flit and spring; To light her dusky solitude Comes April's earliest offering.

The calm Night from her urn of rest Pours downward an unbroken stream; All day upon her mother's breast My lady lieth in a dream.

Love could not chill her low, soft bed With any sad memorial stone; He put a red rose at her head-- A flame as fragrant as his own.

Ada Foster Murray [1857-1936]

THE WIFE FROM FAIRYLAND

Her talk was all of woodland things, Of little lives that pa.s.s Away in one green afternoon, Deep in the haunted gra.s.s;

For she had come from fairyland, The morning of a day When the world that still was April Was turning into May.

Green leaves and silence and two eyes-- 'Twas so she seemed to me, A silver shadow of the woods, Whisper and mystery.

I looked into her woodland eyes, And all my heart was hers, And then I led her by the hand Home up my marble stairs;

And all my granite and my gold Was hers for her green eyes, And all my sinful heart was hers From sunset to sunrise;

I gave her all delight and ease That G.o.d had given to me, I listened to fulfil her dreams, Rapt with expectancy.

But all I gave, and all I did, Brought but a weary smile Of grat.i.tude upon her face; As though a little while,

She loitered in magnificence Of marble and of gold, And waited to be home again When the dull tale was told.

Sometimes, in the chill galleries, Unseen, she deemed, unheard, I found her dancing like a leaf And singing like a bird.

So lone a thing I never saw In lonely earth or sky, So merry and so sad a thing, One sad, one laughing, eye.

There came a day when on her heart A wildwood blossom lay, And the world that still was April Was turning into May.

In the green eyes I saw a smile That turned my heart to stone: My wife that came from fairyland No longer was alone.

For there had come a little hand To show the green way home, Home through the leaves, home through the dew, Home through the greenwood--home.

Richard Le Gallienne [1866-

IN THE FALL O' YEAR

I went back an old-time lane In the fall o' year, There was wind and bitter rain And the leaves were sere.

Once the birds were lilting high In a far-off May-- I remember, you and I Were as glad as they.