A Few Figs from Thistles | Page 5

man,
And Joan a gentle lover,
And
Agatha's Arth' is a hug-the-hearth,--
But my true love's a rover!
Mig, her man's as good as cheese
And honest as a briar,
Sue tells
her love what he's thinking of,--
But my dear lad's a liar!
Oh, Sue and Prue and Agatha
Are thick with Mig and Joan!
They
bite their threads and shake their heads
And gnaw my name like a
bone;
And Prue says, "Mine's a patient man,
As never snaps me up,"
And
Agatha, "Arth' is a hug-the-hearth,
Could live content in a cup;"
Sue's man's mind is like good jell--
All one colour, and clear --
And
Mig's no call to think at all
What's to come next year,

While Joan makes boast of a gentle lad,
That's troubled with that and
this;--
But they all would give the life they live
For a look from the
man I kiss!
Cold he slants his eyes about,
And few enough's his choice,--

Though he'd slip me clean for a nun, or a queen,
Or a beggar with
knots in her voice,--
And Agatha will turn awake
While her good man sleeps sound,

And Mig and Sue and Joan and Prue
Will hear the clock strike round,
For Prue she has a patient man,
As asks not when or why,
And Mig
and Sue have naught to do
But peep who's passing by,
Joan is paired with a putterer
That bastes and tastes and salts,
And
Agatha's Arth' is a hug-the-hearth,--
But my true love is false!
The Prisoner
All right,
Go ahead!
What's in a name?
I guess I'll be locked into

As much as I'm locked out of!
The Unexplorer
There was a road ran past our house
Too lovely to explore.
I asked
my mother once--she said
That if you followed where it led
It
brought you to the milk-man's door.
(That's why I have not traveled
more.)
Grown-up
Was it for this I uttered prayers,
And sobbed and cursed and kicked
the stairs,
That now, domestic as a plate,
I should retire at half-past
eight?
The Penitent

I had a little Sorrow,
Born of a little Sin,
I found a room all damp
with gloom
And shut us all within;
And, "Little Sorrow, weep,"
said I,
"And, Little Sin, pray God to die,
And I upon the floor will
lie
And think how bad I've been!"
Alas for pious planning--
It mattered not a whit!
As far as gloom
went in that room,
The lamp might have been lit!
My little Sorrow
would not weep,
My little Sin would go to sleep--
To save my soul
I could not keep
My graceless mind on it!
So up I got in anger,
And took a book I had,
And put a ribbon on
my hair
To please a passing lad,
And, "One thing there's no getting
by--
I've been a wicked girl," said I;
"But if I can't be sorry, why,

I might as well be glad!"
Daphne
Why do you follow me?--
Any moment I can be
Nothing but a
laurel-tree.
Any moment of the chase
I can leave you in my place
A pink bough
for your embrace.
Yet if over hill and hollow
Still it is your will to follow,
I am
off;--to heel, Apollo!
Portrait by a Neighbor
Before she has her floor swept
Or her dishes done,
Any day you'll
find her
A-sunning in the sun!
It's long after midnight
Her key's in the lock,
And you never see her
chimney smoke
Till past ten o'clock!
She digs in her garden
With a shovel and a spoon,
She weeds her
lazy lettuce
By the light of the moon,

She walks up the walk
Like a woman in a dream,
She forgets she
borrowed butter
And pays you back cream!
Her lawn looks like a meadow,
And if she mows the place
She
leaves the clover standing
And the Queen Anne's lace!
Midnight Oil
Cut if you will, with Sleep's dull knife,
Each day to half its length, my
friend,--
The years that Time takes off my life,
He'll take from off
the other end!
The Merry Maid
Oh, I am grown so free from care
Since my heart broke!
I set my
throat against the air,
I laugh at simple folk!
There's little kind and little fair
Is worth its weight in smoke
To me,
that's grown so free from care
Since my heart broke!
Lass, if to sleep you would repair
As peaceful as you woke,
Best
not besiege your lover there
For just the words he spoke
To me,
that's grown so free from care
Since my heart broke!
To Kathleen
Still must the poet as of old,
In barren attic bleak and cold,
Starve,
freeze, and fashion verses to
Such things as flowers and song and
you;
Still as of old his being give
In Beauty's name, while she may live,

Beauty that may not die as long
As there are flowers and you and
song.
To S. M.
If he should lie a-dying

I am not willing you should go
Into the earth, where Helen went;

She is awake by now, I know.
Where Cleopatra's anklets rust
You
will not lie with my consent;
And Sappho is a roving dust;
Cressid
could love again; Dido,
Rotted in state, is restless still:
You leave
me much against my will.
The Philosopher
And what are you that, wanting you
I should be kept awake
As
many nights as there