And then I saw it, oh, sweet surprise,
    The taper it set a-burning
  The love-light brimming my lady’s eyes,
    And my heart with the fire of yearning.

THE CHASE

  The wind told the little leaves to hurry,
    And chased them down the way,
  While the mother tree laughed loud in glee,
    For she thought her babes at play,
  The cruel wind and the rain laughed loudly,
    We’ll bury them deep, they said,
  And the old tree grieves, and the little leaves
    Lie low, all chilled and dead.

SUPPOSE

  If ’twere fair to suppose
    That your heart were not taken,
  That the dew from the rose
    Petals still were not shaken,
  I should pluck you,
    Howe’er you should thorn me and scorn me,
  And wear you for life as the green of the bower.

  If ’twere fair to suppose
    That that road was for vagrants,
  That the wind and the rose,
    Counted all in their fragrance;
  Oh, my dear one,
    By love, I should take you and make you,
  The green of my life from the scintillant hour.

THE DEATH OF THE FIRST BORN

  Cover him over with daisies white
    And eke with the poppies red,
  Sit with me here by his couch to-night,
    For the First-Born, Love, is dead.

  Poor little fellow, he seemed so fair
    As he lay in my jealous arms;
  Silent and cold he is lying there
    Stripped of his darling charms.

  Lusty and strong he had grown forsooth,
    Sweet with an infinite grace,
  Proud in the force of his conquering youth,
    Laughter alight in his face.

  Oh, but the blast, it was cruel and keen,
    And ah, but the chill it was rare;
  The look of the winter-kissed flow’r you’ve seen
    When meadows and fields were bare.

  Can you not wake from this white, cold sleep
    And speak to me once again? 
  True that your slumber is deep, so deep,
    But deeper by far is my pain.

  Cover him over with daisies white,
    And eke with the poppies red,
  Sit with me here by his couch to-night,
    For the First-Born, Love, is dead.

BEIN’ BACK HOME

  Home agin, an’ home to stay—­
  Yes, it’s nice to be away. 
  Plenty things to do an’ see,
  But the old place seems to me
  Jest about the proper thing. 
  Mebbe ’ts ’cause the mem’ries cling
  Closer ‘round yore place o’ birth
  ’N ary other spot on earth.

  W’y it’s nice jest settin’ here,
  Lookin’ out an’ seein’ clear,
  ’Thout no smoke, ner dust, ner haze
  In these sweet October days. 
  What’s as good as that there lane,
  Kind o’ browned from last night’s rain? 
  ’Pears like home has got the start
  When the goal’s a feller’s heart.