For you the call came swift and soon: 
  But sometimes in your holidays
You meet me trudging home at noon
  To dinner through the dusty ways,
    And recognized, and with a nod
    Passed on, but never guessed—­thank God!

Truly our ways were separate. 
  I bent myself to hoe and drill,

Yea, with an honest man to mate,
  Fulfilling God Almighty’s will;
    And bore him children.  But my prayers
    Were yours—­and, only after, theirs.

While you—­still loftier, more remote,
  You sprang from stair to stair of fame,
And you’ve a riband on your coat,
  And you’ve a title to your name;
    But have you yet a star to shine
    Above your bed, as I o’er mine?

TWO DUETS

From “Arion,” an unpublished Masque

I

He. Aglai-a!  Aglai-a! 
      Sweet, awaken and be glad.
She. Who is this that calls Aglaia? 
      Is it thou, my dearest lad?
He. ’Tis Arion, ’tis Arion,
      Who calls thee from sleep—­
    From slumber who bids thee
    To follow and number
      His kids and his sheep.
She. Nay, leave to entreat me! 
      If mother should spy on
    Us twain, she would beat me.
He. Then come, my love, come! 
     And hide with Arion
       Where green woods are dumb!

She. Ar-i-on!  Ar-i-on! 
         Closer, list!  I am afraid!

He. Whisper, then, thy love Arion,
         From thy window, lily maid.

She. Yet Aglaia, yet Aglaia
         Hath heard them debate
       Of wooing repenting—­
       “Who trust to undoing,
        Lament them too late.”

He. Nay, nay, when I woo thee,
         Thy mother might spy on
       All harm I shall do thee.

She. I come, then—­I come! 
       To follow Arion
         Where green woods be dumb.

SONG

Sparrow of Love, so sharp to peck,
Arrow of Love—­I bare my neck
Down to the bosom.  See, no fleck

Of blood!  I have never a wound; I go
Forth to the greenwood.  Yet, heigh-ho! 
What ’neath my girdle flutters so?

’Tis not a bird, and yet hath wings,
’Tis not an arrow, yet it stings;
While in the wound it nests and sings—­

          
                                        Heigh-ho!

He. Of Arion, of Arion
        That wound thou shalt learn;
      What nothings ’tis made of,
      And soft pretty soothings
        In shade of the fern.

She. When maids have a mind to,
         Man’s word they rely on,
       Old warning are blind to—­
         I come, then—­I come
           To walk with Arion
         Where green woods are dumb!