And still the sweet, half-solemn look Where some past thought was clinging, As when one shuts a serious book I kneel to you! Of those you were Whom some old store of garnered grief, Peace to your soul! You died unwedDespite this loving letter. And what of John? The less that's said Of John, I think, the better. The Sundial. 'Tis an old dial, dark with many a stain; In summer crowned with drifting orchard bloom, And round about its gray, time-eaten brow I marke the Time: saye, Gossip, dost thou soe? Here would the ring-doves linger, head to head; The tardy shade moved forward to the noon; O'er her blue dress an endless blossom strayed; And round her train the tiger-lilies swayed, She leaned upon the slab a little while, Then drew a jewelled pencil from her zone, Scribbled a something with a frolic smile, Folded, inscribed, and niched it in the stone. The shade slipped on, no swifter than the snail; Dove-eyed, dove-robed, and something wan and pale-- She, as if listless with a lonely love, Straying among the alleys with a book,Herrick or Herbert,-watched the circling dove, And spied the tiny letter in the nook. Then, like to one who confirmation found Of some dread secret half accounted true,Who knew what hands and hearts the letter bound, And argued loving commerce 'twixt the two,— She bent her fair young forehead on the stone; The dark shade gloomed an instant on her head; And 'twixt her taper fingers pearled and shone The single tear that tear-worn eyes will shed. 1 The shade slipped onward to the falling gloom; A ribboned love-lock rippling from his head; Blue-eyed, frank-faced, with clear and open brow, The frequent sword-hilt had so frayed his glove; As courtiers do, but gentleman withal, Took out the note; held it as one who feared The fragile thing he held would slip and fall; Read and re-read, pulling his tawny beard; Kissed it, I think, and hid it in his breast; The shade crept forward through the dying glow; A Madrigal. BEFORE me, careless lying, Young Love his ware comes crying; His pack of pains and pleasures,- He bids me buy From out his pack of treasures. His wallet's stuffed with blisses, With boyish flout, And bids me try the fetters. "Nay, child," I cry, "I know them; There's little need to show them! Too well for new believing I know their past deceiving,- I say, "and cold, To-day, for new believing!" But still the wanton presses, |