THE SUNDIAL O'er her blue dress an endless blossom strayed; About her tendril-curls the sunlight shone; And round her train the tiger-lilies swayed, Like courtiers bowing till the queen be gone. 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; An inner beauty shining from her face. 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. The shade slipped onward to the falling gloom; There came a soldier gallant in her stead, Swinging a beaver with a swaling plume, A ribboned love-lock rippling from his head; Blue-eyed, frank-faced, with clear and open brow, Scar-seamed a little, as the women love; So kindly fronted that you marvel how The frequent sword-hilt had so frayed his glove; Who switched at Psyche plunging in the sun; Uncrowned three lilies with a backward swinge; And standing somewhat widely, like to one More used to "Boot and Saddle" than to cringe 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; There came no more nor dame nor cavalier; But for a little time the brass will show A small gray spot-the record of a tear. AN UNFINISHED SONG YES, AN UNFINISHED SONG "Gantat Deo qui vivit Deo," YES, he was well-nigh gone and near his rest, The year could not renew him; nor the cry Of building nightingales about the nest; Nor that soft freshness of the May-wind's sigh, That fell before the garden scents, and died But death not yet. Outside a woman talked His wife she was—whose clicking needles sped To faded phrases of complaint that balked My rising words of comfort. Overhead, A cage that hung amid the jasmine stars Trembled a little, and a blossom dropped. Then notes came pouring through the wicker bars, Climbed half a rapid arc of song, and stopped. "Is it a thrush?" I asked. "A thrush," she said. Will taught him that "That was Will's tune. before He left the doorway settle for his bed, Sick as you see, and couldn't teach him more. "He'd bring his Bible here o' nights, would Will, Following the light, and whiles when it was dark And days were warm, he'd sit there whistling still, Teaching the bird. He whistled like a lark." "Jack! Jack!" A joyous flutter stirred the cage, How clear the song was! Musing as I heard, The broken song, the uncompleted life, That seemed a broken song; and of the two, My thought a moment deemed the bird more blest, That, when the sun shone, sang the notes it knew, Without desire or knowledge of the rest. Nay, happier man. For him futurity Still hides a hope that this his earthly praise Finds heavenly end, for surely will not He, Solver of all, above his Flower of Days, AN UNFINISHED SONG Teach him the song that no one living knows? Let the man die, with that half-chant of his,— What Now discovers not Hereafter shows, And God will surely teach him more than this. Again the Bird. I turned, and passed along; |