When I sewed or drew,
          I recall
     How he looked as if I sung,—­
          Sweetly too. 
     If I spoke a word,
          First of all
     Up his cheek the color sprung,
          Then he heard.

     Sitting by my side,
          At my feet,
     So he breathed but air I breathed,
          Satisfied! 
     I, too, at love’s brim
          Touched the sweet: 
     I would die if death bequeathed
          Sweet to him.

     “Speak, I love thee best!”
          He exclaimed: 
     “Let thy love my own foretell!”
          I confessed: 
     “Clasp my heart on thine
          Now unblamed,
     Since upon thy soul as well
          Hangeth mine!”

     Was it wrong to own,
          Being truth? 
     Why should all the giving prove
          His alone? 
     I had wealth and ease,
          Beauty, youth: 
     Since my lover gave me love,
          I gave these.

     That was all I meant,—­
          To be just,
     And the passion I had raised
          To content. 
     Since he chose to change
          Gold for dust,
     If I gave him what he praised
          Was it strange? 
     Would he loved me yet,
          On and on,
     While I found some way undreamed—­
          Paid my debt! 
     Gave more life and more,
          Till all gone,
     He should smile—­“She never seemed
          Mine before.

     “What, she felt the while,
          Must I think? 
     Love’s so different with us men!”
          He should smile: 
     “Dying for my sake—­
          White and pink! 
     Can’t we touch these bubbles then
          But they break?”

     Dear, the pang is brief,
          Do thy part,
     Have thy pleasure!  How perplexed
          Grows belief! 
     Well, this cold clay clod
          Was man’s heart: 
     Crumble it, and what comes next? 
          Is it God?

     EVELYN HOPE

     Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead! 
        Sit and watch by her side an hour. 
     That is her book-shelf, this her bed: 
        She plucked that piece of geranium-flower,
     Beginning to die too, in the glass: 
        Little has yet been changed, I think;
     The shutters are shut, no light may pass
        Save two long rays through the hinge’s chink.

     Sixteen years old when she died! 
        Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name;
     It was not her time to love; beside,
        Her life had many a hope and aim,
     Duties enough and little cares,
        And now was quiet, now astir,
     Till God’s hand beckoned unawares—­
        And the sweet white brow is all of her.