Foolish heart and faithful hand,
Little feet that touched no land. 
Far away the ripple sped,
Ripple—­ripple—­running red!

BUTTERFLIES

Eyes aloft, over dangerous places,
The children follow the butterflies,
And, in the sweat of their upturned faces,
Slash with a net at the empty skies.

So it goes they fall amid brambles,
And sting their toes on the nettle-tops,
Till, after a thousand scratches and scrambles,
They wipe their brows and the hunting stops.

Then to quiet them comes their father
And stills the riot of pain and grief,
Saying, ’Little ones, go and gather
Out of my garden a cabbage-leaf.

’You will find on it whorls and clots of
Dull grey eggs that, properly fed,
Turn, by way of the worm, to lots of
Glorious butterflies raised from the dead...,’

‘Heaven is beautiful, Earth is ugly,’
The three-dimensioned preacher saith,
So we must not look where the snail and the slug lie
For Psyche’s birth....  And that is our death!

MY LADY’S LAW

The Law whereby my lady moves
Was never Law to me,
But ’tis enough that she approves
Whatever Law it be.

For in that Law, and by that Law,
My constant course I’ll steer;
Not that I heed or deem it dread,
But that she holds it dear.

Tho’ Asia sent for my content
Her richest argosies,
Those would I spurn, and bid return,
If that should give her ease.

With equal heart I’d watch depart
Each spiced sail from sight,
Sans bitterness, desiring less
Great gear than her delight.

Though Kings made swift with many a gift
My proven sword to hire,
I would not go nor serve ’em so,
Except at her desire.

With even mind, I’d put behind
Adventure and acclaim,
And clean give o’er, esteeming more
Her favour than my fame.

Yet such am I, yea such am I—­
Sore bond and freest free,
The Law that sways my lady’s ways
Is mystery to me!

THE NURSING SISTER

(Maternity Hospital)

Our sister sayeth such and such. 
And we must bow to her behests;
Our sister toileth overmuch,
Our little maid that hath no breasts.

A field untilled, a web unwove,
A flower withheld from sun or bee,
An alien in the courts of Love,
And—­teacher unto such as we!

We love her, but we laugh the while,
We laugh, but sobs are mixed with laughter;
Our sister hath no time to smile,
She knows not what must follow after.

Wind of the South, arise and blow,
From beds of spice thy locks shake free;
Breathe on her heart that she may know,
Breathe on her eyes that she may see.

Alas! we vex her with our mirth,
And maze her with most tender scorn,
Who stands beside the gates of Birth,
Herself a child—­a child unborn!