Part 3 (1/2)

Lonely grows the afternoon, empty grows the world; Day's bright banners in the west one by one are furled, Sadly sinks the lingering sun that like a lover rose, One by one each woodland thing loses heart and goes.

Back along the woodland, all the day is dead, All the green has turned to gray, and all the gold to lead; O 'tis bitter cruel, sweet, to treat a lover so: If only I were half a man . . . I'd let the baggage go.

THE RIVAL

She failed me at the tryst: All the long afternoon The golden day went by, Until the rising moon; But, as I waited on, Turning my eyes about, Aching for sight of her, Until the stars came out,-- Maybe 'twas but a dream-- There close against my face, ”Beauty am I,” said one, ”I come to take her place.”

And then I understood Why, all the waiting through, The green had seemed so green, The blue had seemed so blue, The song of bird and stream Had been so pa.s.sing sweet, For all the coming not Of her forgetful feet; And how my heart was tranced, For all its lonely ache, Gazing on mirrored rushes Sky-deep in the lake.

Said Beauty: ”_Me_ you love, You love her for my sake.”

THE QUARREL

Thou shall not me persuade This love of ours Can in a moment fade, Like summer flowers;

That a swift word or two, In angry haste, Our heaven shall undo, Our hearts lay waste.

For a poor flash of pride, A cold word spoken, Love shall not be denied, Or long troth broken.

Yea; wilt thou not relent?

Be mine the wrong, No more the argument, Dear love, prolong.

The summer days go by, Cease that sweet rain, Those angry crystals dry, Be friends again.

So short a time at best Is ours to play, Come, take me to thy breast-- Ah! that's the way.

LOVERS

Why should I ask perfection of thee, sweet, That have so little of mine own to bring?

That thou art beautiful from head to feet-- Is that, beloved, such a little thing, That I should ask more of thee, and should fling Thy largesse from me, in a world like this, O generous giver of thy perfect kiss?

Thou gavest me thy lips, thine eyes, thine hair; I brought thee wors.h.i.+p--was it not thy due?

If thou art cruel--still art thou not fair?

Roses thou gavest--shalt thou not bring rue?

Alas! have I not brought thee sorrow too?

How dare I face the future and its drouth, Missing that golden honeycomb thy mouth?

Kiss and make up--'tis the wise ancient way; Back to my arms, O bountiful deep breast!