member, Dear, the day
We met in those bare woods of May?
Each had a secret unconfessed,
Each sound a promise, in each nest.
Young wings a-tremble for the air,--
How we joined hands?--not knowing where
The springs that touch set free
Should find their sea.
Speechless--so sure we were to share
The unknown good to be.

XX

The woods are bare again. There are
No secrets now, the bud's a scar;
No promises,--this is the end!
Ah, Dearest, I have seen thee bend
Above thy flowers as one who knew
The dying wood should bloom anew.
Come, let us sleep, Perchance
God's countenance,
Like thine above thy flowers, smiles through
The night upon us two.

VERSES

MY FRIEND

I have a friend who came,--I know not how,
Nor he. Among the crowd, apart,
I feel the pressure of his hand, and hear
In very truth the beating of his heart.

My soul had shut the door of abode,
So poor it seemed for any guest
To tarry there a night,--until he came,
Asking, not entertainment, only rest.

Our hands were empty,-his and mine alike,
He says--until they joined. I see
The gifts he brought; but where were mine
That he should say "I too have need of thee?"

Without the threshold of his heart I wait
Abashed, afraid to enter where
So radiant a company do meet,
Yet enter boldly, knowing I am there.

Whether his hand shall press my latch to-night,
To-morrow, matters not. He came
Unsummoned, he will come again; and I,
Though dead, shall answer to my name.

And yet, dear friend, in whom I rest content,
Speak to me _now_--lest when we meet
Where tears and hunger have no grace,
A little word of friendship be less sweet.

ON NE BADINE PAS AVEC LA MORT

1

The dew was full of sun that morn
_(Oh I heard the doves in the ladyricks coop!)_
As he crossed the meadows beyond the corn,
Watching his falcon in the blue.
How could he hear my song so far,--
The song of the blood where the pulses are!
Straight through the fields he came to me,
_(Oh I saw his soul as I saw the dew!)_
But I hid my joy that he might not see,
I hid it deep within my breast,
As the starling hides in the maize her nest.

2

Back through the corn he turned again,
_(Oh little he cared where his falcon flew!)_
And my heart lay still in the hand of pain,
As in winter's hand the rivers do.
How coul