Chapter VIII

"I grant to the wise his meed,
But his yoke I will not brook,
For God taught ME to read,--
He lent me the world for a book."

FRIENDSHIP.

ON A SUN-PORTRAIT OF HER HUSBAND, SENT BY HIS WIFE TO THEIR FRIEND.

Beautiful eyes,--and shall I see no more The living thought when it would leap from them, And play in all its sweetness 'neath their lids?

Here was a man familiar with fair heights That poets climb. Upon his peace the tears And troubles of our race deep inroads made, Yet life was sweet to him; he kept his heart At home. Who saw his wife might well have thought,-- "God loves this man. He chose a wife for him,-- The true one!" O sweet eyes, that seem to live, I know so much of you, tell me the rest! Eyes full of fatherhood and tender care For small, young children. Is a message here That you would fain have sent, but had not time? If such there be, I promise, by long love And perfect friendship, by all trust that comes Of understanding, that I will not fail, No, nor delay to find it. O, my heart Will often pain me as for some strange fault,-- Some grave defect in nature,--when I think How I, delighted, 'neath those olive-trees, Moved to the music of the tideless main, While, with sore weeping, in an island home They laid that much-loved head beneath the sod, And I did not know.