The oldest gyrl—­the first that went—­married and died right here;
  The next lives in Winn’s Settlement—­for purt’ nigh thirty year! 
  And youngest one—­was allus far the old home here—­but no!—­
  Her man turns in and he packs her ’way off to Idyho!

  I don’t miss them like Marg’et does—­’cause I got her, you see;
  And when she pines for them—­that’s ‘cause she’s only jes’ got
    me! 
  I laugh, and joke her ‘bout it all.—­But talkin’ sense, I’ll say,
  When she was tuk so bad last Fall, I laughed the t’other way!

  I haint so favorble impressed ‘bout dyin’; but ef I
  Found I was only second-best when us two come to die,
  I’d ’dopt the “new process” in full, ef Marg’et died, you see,—­
  I’d jes’ crawl in my grave and pull the green grass over me!

A LEAVE-TAKING.

  She will not smile;
    She will not stir;
  I marvel while
    I look on her. 
      The lips are chilly
        And will not speak;
      The ghost of a lily
        In either cheek.

  Her hair—­ah me! 
    Her hair—­her hair! 
  How helplessly
    My hands go there! 
      But my caresses
        Meet not hers,
      O golden tresses
        That thread my tears!

  I kiss the eyes
    On either lid,
  Where her love lies
    Forever hid. 
      I cease my weeping
        And smile and say: 
      I will be sleeping
        Thus, some day!

WAIT FOR THE MORNING.

  Wait for the morning:—­It will come, indeed,
  As surely as the night hath given need. 
  The yearning eyes, at last, will strain their sight
  No more unanswered by the morning light;
  No longer will they vainly strive, through tears,
  To pierce the darkness of thy doubts and fears,
  But, bathed in balmy dews and rays of dawn,
  Will smile with rapture o’er the darkness drawn.

  Wait for the morning, O thou smitten child,
  Scorned, scourged and persecuted and reviled—­
  Athirst and famishing, none pitying thee,
  Crowned with the twisted thorns of agony—­
  No faintest gleam of sunlight through the dense
  Infinity of gloom to lead thee thence—­
  Wait for the morning:—­It will come, indeed,
  As surely as the night hath given need.

WHEN JUNE IS HERE.

  When June is here—­what art have we to sing
    The whiteness of the lilies midst the green
    Of noon-tranced lawns?  Or flash of roses seen
  Like redbirds’ wings?  Or earliest ripening
  Prince-Harvest apples, where the cloyed bees cling
    Round winey juices oozing down between
    The peckings of the robin, while we lean
  In under-grasses, lost in marveling. 
    Or the cool term of morning, and the stir
  Of odorous breaths from wood and meadow walks,
    The bobwhite’s liquid yodel, and the whir
  Of sudden flight; and, where the milkmaid talks
  Across the bars, on tilted barley-stalks
    The dewdrops’ glint in webs of gossamer.