Part 3 (1/2)

Green moss will creep Along the shady graves where we shall sleep.

Each year will bring Another brood of birds to nest and sing.

At dawn will go New ploughmen to the fields we used to know.

Night will call home The hunter from the hills we loved to roam.

She will not ask, The milkmaid, singing softly at her task,

Nor will she care To know if I were brave or you were fair.

No one will think What chalice life had offered us to drink,

When from our clay The sun comes back to kiss the snow away.

Now!

Her brown hair knew no royal crest, No gems nor jeweled charms, No roses her bright cheek caressed, No lilies kissed her arms.

In simple, modest womanhood Clad, as was meet, in white, The fairest flower of all, she stood Amid the softest light.

It had been worth a perilous quest To see the court she drew,-- My rose, my gem, my royal crest, My lily moist with dew; Worth heaven, when, with farewells from each The gay throng let us be, To see her turn at last and reach Her white hands out to me.

Tommy Smith

When summer's languor drugs my veins And fills with sleep the droning times, Like sluggish dreams among my brains, There runs the drollest sort of rhymes, Idle as clouds that stray through heaven And vague as if they were a myth, But in these rhymes is always given A health for old Bluebritches Smith.

Among my thoughts of what is good In olden times and distant lands, Is that do-nothing neighborhood Where the old cider-hogshead stands To welcome with its br.i.m.m.i.n.g gourd The canny crowd of kin and kith Who meet about the bibulous board Of old Bluebritches Tommy Smith.

In years to come, when stealthy change Hath stolen the cider-press away And the gnarled orchards of the grange Have fallen before a slow decay, Were I so cunning, I would carve From some time-scorning monolith A sculpture that should well preserve The fame of old Bluebritches Smith.

Before Bedtime

The cat sleeps in a chimney jam With ashes in her fur, An' Tige, from on the yuther side, He keeps his eye on her.

The jar o' curds is on the hearth, An' I'm the one to turn it.