LADY mine, most fair thou art
With youth’s gold and white and red;
’Tis a pity that thy heart
Is so much harder than thy head.
This has stayed my kisses oft,
This from all thy charms debarr’d,
That thy head is strangely soft,
While thy heart is strangely hard.
Nothing had kept us apart—
I had loved thee, I had wed—
Hadst thou had a softer heart
Or a harder head.
But I think I’ll bear Love’s smart
Till the wound has healed and fled,
Or thy head is like thy heart,
Or thy heart is like thy head.
Herbert Edwin Clarke.

THE RIPEST PEACH[A]

THE ripest peach is highest on the tree—
And so her love, beyond the reach of me,
Is dearest in my sight. Sweet breezes, bow
Her heart down to me where I worship now!
She looms aloft where every eye may see
The ripest peach is highest on the tree.
Such fruitage as her love I know, alas!
I may not reach here from the orchard grass.
I drink the sunshine showered past her lips
As roses drain the dewdrop as it drips.
The ripest peach is highest on the tree,
And so mine eyes gaze upward eagerly.
Why—why do I not turn away in wrath
And pluck some heart here hanging in my path?—
Love’s lower boughs bend with them—but, ah me!
The ripest peach is highest on the tree.
James Whitcomb Riley.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] From “Old-Fashioned Roses,” copyright 1906. Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company.

“I JOURNEYED SOUTH TO MEET THE SPRING”

I  JOURNEYED South to meet the Spring
To feel the soft tide’s gentle rise
That to my heart again should bring,
Foretold by many a whispering wing,
The old, the new, the sweet surprise.
For once, the wonder was not new—
And yet it wore a newer grace:
For all its innocence of hue,
Its warmth and bloom and dream and dew,
I had but left—in Helen’s face.
Robert Underwood Johnson.

BEFORE THE BLOSSOM

IN the tassel-time of spring
Love’s the only song to sing;
Ere the ranks of solid shade
Hide the bluebird’s flitting wing,
While in open forest glade
No mysterious sound or thing
Haunt of green has found or made,
Love’s the only song to sing.
Though in May each bush be dressed
Like a bride, and every nest
Learn Love’s joyous repetend,
Yet the half-told tale is best
At the budding,—with its end
Much too secret to be guessed,
And its fancies that attend
April’s passion unexpressed.
Love and Nature communing
Gave us Arcady. Still ring—
Vales across and groves among—
Wistful memories, echoing
Pans far-off and fluty song
Poet! nothing harsher sing;
Be, like Love and Nature, young
In the tassel-time of spring.
Robert Underwood Johnson.

LOVE IN THE CALENDAR

WHEN chinks in April’s windy dome
Let through a day of June,
And foot and thought incline to roam,
And every sound’s a tune;
When Nature fills a fuller cup,
And hides with green the gray,—
Then, lover, pluck your courage up
To try your fate in May.
Though proud she was as sunset clad
In Autumn’s fruity shades,
Love too is proud, and brings (gay lad!)
Humility to maids.
Scorn not from nature’s mood to learn,
Take counsel of the day:
Since haughty skies to tender turn,
Go try your fate in May.
Though cold she seemed as pearly light
Adown December eves,
And stern as night when March winds smite
The beech’s lingering leaves;
Yet Love hath seasons like the year,
And grave will turn to gay,—
Then, lover, hearken not to fear,
But try your fate in May.
And you whose art it is to hide
The constant love you feel:
Beware, lest overmuch of pride
Your happiness shall steal.
No longer pout, for May is here,
And hearts will have their way;
Love’s in the calendar, my dear,
So yield to fate—and May!
Robert Underwood Johnson.

MY GRANDMOTHER’S TURKEY-TAIL FAN

IT owned not a color that vanity dons
Or slender wits choose for display;
Its beautiful tint was a delicate bronze,
A brown softly blended with gray.
From her waist to her chin, spreading out without break,
’Twas built on a generous plan:
The pride of the forest was slaughtered to make
My grandmother’s turkey-tail fan.
For common occasions it never was meant:
In a chest between two silken cloths
’Twas kept safely hidden with careful intent
In camphor to keep out the moths.
’Twas famed far and wide through the whole country side,
From Beersheba e’en unto Dan;
And often at meeting with envy ’twas eyed,
My grandmother’s turkey-tail fan.
Camp-meetings, indeed, were its chiefest delight.
Like a crook unto sheep gone astray
It beckoned backsliders to re-seek the right,
And exhorted the sinners to pray.
It always beat time when the choir went wrong,
In psalmody leading the van.
Old Hundred, I know, was its favorite song—
My grandmother’s turkey-tail fan.
A fig for the fans that are made nowadays,
Suited only to frivolous mirth!
A different thing was the fan that I praise,
Yet it scorned not the good things of earth.
At bees and at quiltings ’twas aye to be seen;
The best of the gossip began
When in at the doorway had entered serene
My grandmother’s turkey-tail fan.
Tradition relates of it wonderful tales.
Its handle of leather was buff.
Though shorn of its glory, e’en now it exhales
An odor of hymn-books and snuff.
Its primeval grace, if you like, you can trace:
’Twas limned for the future to scan,
Just under a smiling gold-spectacled face,
My grandmother’s turkey-tail fan.
Samuel Minturn Peck.

VALENTINE

IF thou canst make the frost be gone,
And fleet away the snow
(And that thou canst, I trow);
If thou canst make the spring to dawn,
Hawthorn to put her brav’ry on,
Willow, her weeds of fine green lawn,
Say why thou dost not so—
Aye, aye!
Say why
Thou dost not so!
If thou canst chase the stormy rack,
And bid the soft winds blow
(And that thou canst, I trow);
If thou canst call the thrushes back
To give the groves the songs they lack,
And wake the violet in thy track,
Say why thou dost not so—
Aye, aye!
Say why
Thou dost not so!
If thou canst make my winter spring,
With one word breathed low
(And that thou canst, I know);
If in the closure of a ring
Thou canst to me such treasure bring,
My state shall be above a king,
Say why thou dost not so—
Aye, aye!
Say why
Thou dost not so!
Edith Matilda Thomas.

A VALENTINE

OH! little loveliest lady mine,
What shall I send for your valentine?
Summer and flowers are far away;
Gloomy old Winter is king to-day;
Buds will not blow, and sun will not shine:
What shall I do for a valentine?
I’ve searched the gardens all through and through
For a bud to tell of my love so true;
But buds are asleep, and blossoms are dead,
And the snow beats down on my poor little head:
So, little loveliest lady mine,
Here is my heart for your valentine!
Laura Elizabeth Richards.

ON A HYMN-BOOK

OLD hymn-book, sure I thought I’d lost you
In the days now long gone by;
I’d forgotten where I tossed you:
Gracious! how I sigh.
In the church a thin partition
Stood between her pew and mine;
And her pious, sweet contrition
Struck me as divine.
Yes, remarkably entrancing
Was she in her sable furs;
And my eyes were always glancing
Up, old book, to hers.
Bless you, very well she knew it,
And I’m sure she liked it too;
Once she whispered, “Please don’t do it,”
But her eyes said, “Do.”
How to speak—to tell my passion?
How to make her think me true?
Love soon found a curious fashion,
For he spoke through you.
How I used to search your pages
For the words I wished to say;
And received my labour’s wages
Every Sabbath day.
Ah, how sweet it was to hand her
You, with lines I’d marked when found!
And how well I’d understand her
When she blushed and frowned.
And one day, old book, you wriggled
From my hand and, rattling fell
Upon the floor; and she—she giggled,
Did Miss Isabel.
Then when next we met out walking,
I was told in fearful tones,
How she’d got a dreadful talking
From the Reverend Jones.
Ah me! No man could resist her
In those sweet and buried years,
So I think—I think I kissed her,
Just to stop her tears.
Jones I gave a good sound chaffing;
Called his sermon dry as bones;
Soon fair Isabel was laughing—
Said she hated Jones.
It was after that I lost you,
For I needed you no more;
Somewhere—anywhere I tossed you
On a closet floor.
Reverend Samuel still preaches;
Isabel her past atones;
In his Sunday-school she teaches—
Mrs. Samuel Jones.
W. J. Henderson.

THE BALLADE OF THE SUMMER-BOARDER

LET all men living on earth take heed,
For their own soul’s sake, to a rhyme well meant;
Writ so that he who runs may read—
We are the folk that a-summering went,
Who while the year was young were bent—
Yea, bent on doing this self-same thing
Which we have done unto some extent.
This is the end of our summering.
We are the folk who would fain be freed
From wasteful burdens of rate and rent—
From the vampire agents’ ravening breed—
We are the folk that a-summering went.
We hied us forth when the summer was blent
With the fresh faint sweetness of dying spring,
A-seeking the meadows dew besprent
This is the end of our summering.
For O the waiters that must be fee’d,
And our meat-time neighbour, the travelling “gent”;
And the youth next door with the ophicleide!
We are the folk that a-summering went!
Who from small bare rooms wherein we were pent,
While birds their way to the southward wing,
Come back, our money for no good spent—
This is the end of our summering.

ENVOY

Citizens! list to our sore lament—
While the landlord’s hands to our raiment cling—
We are the folk that a-summering went:
This is the end of our summering.
H. C. Bunner.

INTERESTING

I  ROWED her out on the broad bright sea,
Till the land lay purple upon our lee.
The heavens were trying the waves to outshine,
With never a cloud to the far sea-line.
On the reefs the billows in kisses broke—
But oh, I was dying for one small smoke.
She spoke of the gulls and the waters green—
But what is nature to Nicotine?
She spoke of the tides, and the Triton myth;
And said Jones was engaged to the blonde Miss Smith.
She spoke of her liking lemon on clams;
And Euclid, and parallelograms.
For her face was fair and her eyes were brown,
And she was a girl from Boston town.
And I rowed and thought—but I never said—
“Does Havana tobacco trouble your head?”
She talked of algæ—she talked of sand—
And I thought: “Tobacco you cannot stand.”
She talked of the ocean-steamer’s speed—
And I yearned for a whiff of the wicked weed.
And at last I spoke, between fright and fret:
“Would you mind if I smoked a cigarette?”
She dropped her eyes on the ocean’s blue,
And said: “Would you mind if I smoked too?”
H. C. Bunner.

THE WAY TO ARCADY

OH, what’s the way to Arcady,
To Arcady, to Arcady;
Oh, what’s the way to Arcady,
Where all the leaves are merry?
Oh, what’s the way to Arcady?
The spring is rustling in the tree—
The tree the wind is blowing through—
It sets the blossoms flickering white.
I knew not skies could burn so blue
Nor any breezes blow so light.
They blow an old-time way for me,
Across the world to Arcady.
Oh, what’s the way to Arcady?
Sir Poet, with the rusty coat,
Quit mocking of the song-bird’s note.
How have you heart for any tune,
You with the wayworn russet shoon?
Your scrip, a-swinging by your side,
Gapes with a gaunt mouth hungry-wide.
I’ll brim it well with pieces red,
If you will tell the way to tread.
Oh, I am bound for Arcady,
And if you but keep pace with me
You tread the way to Arcady.
And where away lies Arcady,
And how long yet may the journey be?
Ah, that (quoth he) I do not know—
Across the clover and the snow—
Across the frost, across the flowers—
Through summer seconds and winter hours.
I’ve trod the way my whole life long,
And know not now where it may be;
My guide is but the stir to song,
That tells me I cannot go wrong,
Or clear or dark the pathway be
Upon the road to Arcady.
But how shall I do who cannot sing?
I was wont to sing, once on a time—
There is never an echo now to ring
Remembrance back to the trick of rhyme.
’Tis strange you cannot sing (quoth he),
The folk all sing in Arcady.
But how may he find Arcady
Who hath nor youth nor melody?
What, know you not, old man (quoth he)—
Your hair is white, your face is wise—
That Love must kiss that Mortal’s eyes
Who hopes to see fair Arcady?
No gold can buy you entrance there;
But beggared Love may go all bare—
No wisdom won with weariness;
But Love goes in with Folly’s dress—
No fame that wit could ever win;
But only Love may lead Love in
To Arcady, to Arcady.
Ah, woe is me, through all my days
Wisdom and wealth I both have got,
And fame and name, and great men’s praise,
But Love, ah, Love! I have it not.
There was a time, when life was new—
But far away, and half forgot—
I only know her eyes were blue;
But Love—I fear I knew it not.
We did not wed, for lack of gold,
And she is dead, and I am old.
All things have come since then to me,
Save Love, ah, Love! and Arcady.
Ah, then I fear we part (quoth he),
My way’s for Love and Arcady.
But you, you fare alone, like me;
The gray is likewise in your hair.
What love have you to lead you there,
To Arcady, to Arcady?
Ah, no, not lonely do I fare;
My true companion’s Memory.
With Love he fills the Spring-time air;
With Love he clothes the Winter tree.
Oh, past this poor horizon’s bound
My song goes straight to one who stands—
Her face all gladdening at the sound—
To lead me to the Spring-green lands,
To wander with enlacing hands.
The songs within my breast that stir
Are all of her, are all of her.
My maid is dead long years (quoth he),
She waits for me in Arcady.
Oh, yon’s the way to Arcady,
To Arcady, to Arcady;
Oh, yon’s the way to Arcady,
Where all the leaves are merry.
H. C. Bunner.

DA CAPO

SHORT and sweet, and we’ve come to the end of it—
Our poor little love lying cold.
Shall no sonnet, then, ever be penned of it?
Nor the joys and pains of it told?
How fair was its face in the morning,
How close its caresses at noon,
How its evening grew chill without warning,
Unpleasantly soon!
I can’t say just how we began it—
In a blush, or a smile, or a sigh;
Fate took but an instant to plan it;
It needs but a moment to die.
Yet—remember that first conversation,
When the flowers you had dropped at your feet
I restored. The familiar quotation
Was—“Sweets to the sweet.”
Oh, their delicate perfume has haunted
My senses a whole season through.
If there was one soft charm that you wanted
The violets lent it to you.
I whispered you, life was but lonely:
A cue which you graciously took;
And your eyes learned a look for me only—
A very nice look.
And sometimes your hand would touch my hand,
With a sweetly particular touch;
You said many things in a sigh, and
Made a look express wondrously much.
We smiled for the mere sake of smiling,
And laughed for no reason but fun;
Irrational joys; but beguiling—
And all that is done!
We were idle, and played for a moment
At a game that now neither will press:
I cared not to find out what “No” meant;
Nor your lips to grow yielding with “Yes.”
Love is done with and dead; if there lingers
A faint and indefinite ghost,
It is laid with this kiss on your fingers—
A jest at the most.
’Tis a commonplace, stale situation,
Now the curtain comes down from above
On the end of our little flirtation—
A travesty romance for Love,
If he climbed in disguise to your lattice,
Fell dead of the first kisses’ pain:
But one thing is left us now; that is—
Begin it again.
H. C. Bunner.

THE MAID OF MURRAY HILL

SAINT Valentine, Saint Valentine!
I love a maid of New York town,
And every day, on my homeward way,
She walks the Avenue down.
At five o’clock, dear Saint, she goes
Tripping down Murray Hill,
And the hands of the clock in the old brick spire
Stand still, stand still, stand still!
Saint Valentine, Saint Valentine!
Oh, could you know how fair a maid—
So trim of dress, and so gold of tress,
You’d know why I’m afraid.
I see her pass, I smile and bow,
As I go up Murray Hill,
And I say to a foolish hope of mine:
Be still, be still, be still!
Saint Valentine, Saint Valentine,
Oh, could you see how close her gown
Binds tight and warm about her form,
This maid of New York town,
You’d know a mountain would to me
Be less than Murray Hill,
If only around her my arm could slip,
And she’d stand still, stand still.
Saint Valentine, Saint Valentine!
She is so fair, so rich, so great,
I have no right to think what might
Be this poor clerk’s estate.
And yet the bells in yon brick spire,
As we pass on Murray Hill,
They ring, they ring—she’s not for me—
And still—and still—and still—
H. C. Bunner.

KITTY’S SUMMERING

HAVE you seen e’er a sign of my Kitty?
Have you seen a fair maiden go by
Who was wed in this summer-struck city
About the first week in July?
How fair was her face there’s no telling;
She was well-nigh as wealthy as fair,
And of marble and brick was her dwelling
On the North side of Washington Square.
Have you seen her at Newport a-driving?
Have you seen her a-flirt at the pier?
Is she written among the arriving
At the Shoals or the Hamptons this year?
Or out where the ocean bird flutters
Are the sea-breezes tossing her hair?
For closed are the ancient green shutters
In the house on North Washington Square.
So you, too, are trying to find her?
Then climb up these stairways with me,
That twist and grow blinder and blinder,
Till the skylight near heaven you see.
Is the sun my dull studio gilding?
Ah, no, it is Kitty sits there—
She has moved to the Studio Building
On the South side of Washington Square.
H. C. Bunner.

FORFEITS

THEY sent him round the circle fair,
To bow before the prettiest there.
I’m bound to say the choice he made
A creditable taste displayed;
Although—I can’t say what it meant—
The little maid looked ill-content.
His task was then anew begun—
To kneel before the wittiest one.
Once more that little maid sought he,
And went him down upon his knee.
She bent her eyes upon the floor—
I think she thought the game a bore.
He circled then—his sweet behest
To kiss the one he loved the best.
For all she frowned, for all she chid,
He kissed that little maid, he did.
And then—though why I can’t decide—
The little maid looked satisfied.
H. C. Bunner.

WHEN WILL LOVE COME?

SOME find Love late, some find him soon,
Some with the rose in May,
Some with the nightingale in June,
And some when skies are grey;
Love comes to some with smiling eyes,
And comes with tears to some;
For some Love sings, for some Love sighs,
For some Love’s lips are dumb.
How will you come to me, fair Love?
Will you come late or soon?
With sad or smiling skies above,
By light of sun or moon?
Will you be sad, will you be sweet,
Sing, sigh, Love, or be dumb?
Will it be summer when we meet,
Or autumn ere you come?
Pakenham Beatty.

HELIOTROPE

AMID the Chapel’s chequered gloom
She laughed with Dora and with Flora
And chattered in the lecture-room—
That saucy little sophomora!
Yet while, as in her other schools,
She was a privileged transgressor,
She never broke the simple rules
Of one particular professor.
But when he spoke of varied lore,
Paroxytones and modes potential,
She listened with a face that wore
A look half fond, half reverential.
To her, that earnest voice was sweet,
And, though her love had no confessor,
Her girlish heart lay at the feet
Of that particular professor.
And he had learned, among his books
That held the lore of ages olden,
To watch those ever-changing looks,
The wistful eyes, the tresses golden,
That stirred his pulse with passion’s pain
And thrilled his soul with soft desire,
And bade fond youth return again,
Crowned with its coronet of fire.
Her sunny smile, her winsome ways,
Were more to him than all his knowledge,
And she preferred his words of praise
To all the honours of the college.
Yet “What am foolish I to him?”
She whispered to her heart’s confessor.
“She thinks me old and grey and grim,”
In silence pondered the professor.
Yet once when Christmas bells were rung
Above ten thousand solemn churches,
And swelling anthems grandly sung
Pealed through the dim cathedral arches;
Ere home returning, filled with hope,
Softly she stole by gate and gable,
And a sweet spray of heliotrope
Left on his littered study table.
Nor came she more from day to day
Like sunshine through the shadows rifting:
Above her grave, far, far away,
The ever silent snows were drifting;
And those who mourned her winsome face
Found in its stead a sweet successor
And loved another in her place—
All, save the silent old professor.
But, in the tender twilight grey,
Shut from the sight of carping critic,
His lonely thoughts would often stray
From Vedic verse and tongues Semitic,
Bidding the ghost of vanished hope
Mock with its past the sad possessor
Of the dead spray of heliotrope
That once she gave the old professor.
Harry Thurston Peck.

BORDERLAND