The Second Book of Modern Verse | Page 7

wood,
A lark o'er Golder's lane,
As I the
April pathway trod
Bound west for Willesden.
At foot each tiny blade grew big
And taller stood to hear,
And
every leaf on every twig
Was like a little ear.
As I too paused, and both ways tried
To catch the rippling rain, --

So still, a hare kept at my side
His tussock of disdain, --
Behind me close I heard a step,
A soft pit-pat surprise,
And looking
round my eyes fell deep
Into sweet other eyes;
The eyes like wells, where sun lies too,
So clear and trustful brown,

Without a bubble warning you
That here's a place to drown.

"How many miles?" Her broken shoes
Had told of more than one.

She answered like a dreaming Muse,
"I came from Islington."
"So long a tramp?" Two gentle nods,
Then seemed to lift a wing,

And words fell soft as willow-buds,
"I came to find the Spring."
A timid voice, yet not afraid
In ways so sweet to roam,
As it with
honey bees had played
And could no more go home.
Her home! I saw the human lair,
I heard the huckster's bawl,
I
stifled with the thickened air
Of bickering mart and stall.
Without a tuppence for a ride,
Her feet had set her free.
Her rags,
that decency defied,
Seemed new with liberty.
But she was frail. Who would might note
The trail of hungering

That for an hour she had forgot
In wonder of the Spring.
So shriven by her joy she glowed
It seemed a sin to chat.
(A
tea-shop snuggled off the road;
Why did I think of that?)
Oh, frail, so frail! I could have wept, --
But she was passing on,

And I but muddled, "You'll accept
A penny for a bun?"
Then up her little throat a spray
Of rose climbed for it must;
A
wilding lost till safe it lay
Hid by her curls of rust;
And I saw modesties at fence
With pride that bore no name;
So old
it was she knew not whence
It sudden woke and came;
But that which shone of all most clear
Was startled, sadder thought

That I should give her back the fear
Of life she had forgot.
And I blushed for the world we'd made,
Putting God's hand aside,

Till for the want of sun and shade
His little children died;

And blushed that I who every year
With Spring went up and down,

Must greet a soul that ached for her
With "penny for a bun!"
Struck as a thief in holy place
Whose sin upon him cries,
I watched
the flowers leave her face,
The song go from her eyes.
Then she, sweet heart, she saw my rout,
And of her charity
A hand
of grace put softly out
And took the coin from me.
A red-cap sang in Bishop's wood,
A lark o'er Golder's lane;
But I,
alone, still glooming stood,
And April plucked in vain;
Till living words rang in my ears
And sudden music played:
~Out
of such sacred thirst as hers
The world shall be remade.~
Afar she turned her head and smiled
As might have smiled the Spring,

And humble as a wondering child
I watched her vanishing.
Little Things. [Orrick Johns]
There's nothing very beautiful and nothing very gay
About the rush of
faces in the town by day,
But a light tan cow in a pale green mead,

That is very beautiful, beautiful indeed . . .
And the soft March wind
and the low March mist
Are better than kisses in a dark street
kissed . . .
The fragrance of the forest when it wakes at dawn,
The
fragrance of a trim green village lawn,
The hearing of the murmur of
the rain at play --
These things are beautiful, beautiful as day!
And I
shan't stand waiting for love or scorn
When the feast is laid for a day
new-born . . .
Oh, better let the little things I loved when little

Return when the heart finds the great things brittle;
And better is a
temple made of bark and thong
Than a tall stone temple that may
stand too long.
New Dreams for Old. [Cale Young Rice]

Is there no voice in the world to come crying,
"New dreams for old!
New for old!"?
Many have long in my heart
been lying,
Faded, weary, and cold.
All of them, all, would I give
for a new one.
(Is there no seeker
Of dreams that were?)
Nor would I ask if the
new were a true one:
Only for new dreams!
New for old!
For I am here, half way of my journey,
Here with the old!
All so old!
And the best heart with death is at
tourney,
If naught new it is told.
Will there no voice, then, come --
or a vision --
Come with the beauty
That ever blows
Out of the lands that are
called Elysian?
I must have new dreams!
New for old!
Invocation. [Clara Shanafelt]
O Glass-Blower of time,
Hast blown all shapes at thy fire?
Canst
thou no lovelier bell,
No clearer bubble, clear as delight, inflate me --

Worthy to hold such wine
As was never yet trod from the grape,

Since the stars shed their light, since the moon
Troubled the night
with her beauty?
Dream. [Anna Hempstead Branch]
But now the Dream has