Part 13 (1/2)

There is a void the aged world Throws over the spent heart; When Life has given all she has, And Terminus says depart.

When we must sit with folded hands, And see with inward eye A void rise like an arctic breath To hollow the morrow's sky.

To-morrow is, and trembling leaves, And 'wildered winds from Thrace Look for you where your face has bloomed, And where may bloom your face.

Beyond the city, over the hill, Under the anguished moon, The winds and my dreams seek after you By meadow, water and dune.

All things must have an end, we know; But oh, the dreaded end; Whether in life, whether in death, To lose the cherished friend.

To lose in life the cherished friend, While the myrtle tree is green; To live and have the cherished friend With only the world between.

With only the wide, wide world between, Where memory has mortmain.

Life pours more wine in the heart of man Than the heart of man can contain.

Oh, heart of man and heart of woman, Thirsting for blood of the vine, Life waits till the heart has lived too much And then pours in new wine!

MADELINE

I almost heard your little heart Begin to beat, and since that hour Your life has grown apace and blossomed, Fed by the same miraculous power,

That moved the rivulet of your life, And made your heart begin to beat.

Now all day your steps are a-patter.

Oh, what swift and musical feet!

You sleep. I wait to see you wake, With wonder-eyes and hands that reach.

I laugh to hear your thoughts that gather Too fast on your budding lips for speech.

Your sunny hair is cut as if 'Twere trimmed around a yellow crock.

How gay the ribbon, and oh, how cunning The flaring skirt of the little frock!

You build and play and search and pry, And hunt for dolls and forgotten toys.

Why do you never tire of playing, Or cease from mischief, or cease from noise?

You will not sleep? You are tired of the house?

You are just as naughty as you can be.

Madeline, Madeline, come to the garden, And play with Marcia under the tree!

MARCIA

Madeline's hair is straight and yours Is just as curly as tendril vines; And she is fair, but a deeper color Your cheeks of olive incarnadines.

A serious wisdom burns and glows Steadily in your dark-eyed look.

Already a wit and a little stoic-- Perhaps you are going to write a book,