Chapter II

When my dreams come true--I shall bide among the sheaves Of happy harvest meadows; and the grasses and the leaves Shall lift and lean between me and the splendor of the sun, Till the moon swoons into twilight, and the gleaners' work is done-- Save that yet an arm shall bind me, even as the reapers do The meanest sheaf of harvest--when my dreams come true.

When my dreams come true! when my dreams come true! True love in all simplicity is fresh and pure as dew;-- The blossom in the blackest mold is kindlier to the eye Than any lily born of pride that looms against the sky: And so it is I know my heart will gladly welcome you, My lowliest of lovers, when my dreams come true.

NOTHIN' TO SAY

Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say! Gyrls that's in love, I've noticed, ginerly has their way! Yer mother did, afore you, when her folks objected to me-- Yit here I am, and here you air; and yer mother--where is she?

You look lots like yer mother: Purty much same in size; And about the same complected; and favor about the eyes: Like her, too, about _livin_' here,--because _she_ couldn't stay: It'll 'most seem like you was dead--like her!--But I hain't got nothin' to say!

She left you her little Bible--writ yer name acrost the page-- And left her ear bobs fer you, ef ever you come of age. I've allus kep' 'em and gyuarded 'em, but ef yer goin' away-- Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say!

You don't rikollect her, I reckon? No; you wasn't a year old then! And now yer--how old _air_ you? W'y, child, not "_twenty_!" When? And yer nex' birthday's in Aprile? and you want to git married that day? ... I wisht yer mother was livin'!--But--I hain't got nothin' to say!

Twenty year! and as good a gyrl as parent ever found! There's a straw ketched onto yer dress there--I'll bresh it off--turn round. (Her mother was jes' twenty when us two run away!) Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say!

IKE WALTON'S PRAYER

I crave, dear Lord,
No boundless hoard
Of gold and gear,
Nor jewels fine,
Nor lands, nor kine,
Nor treasure-heaps of anything--
Let but a little hut be mine
Where at the hearthstone I may hear
The cricket sing,
And have the shine
Of one glad woman's eyes to make,
For my poor sake,
Our simple home a place divine;--
Just the wee cot--the cricket's chirr--
Love, and the smiling face of her.

I pray not for
Great riches, nor
For vast estates, and castle-halls,--
Give me to hear the bare footfalls
Of children o'er
An oaken floor,
New-rinsed with sunshine, or bespread
With but the tiny coverlet
And pillow for the baby's head;
And pray Thou, may
The door stand open and the day
Send ever in a gentle breeze,
With fragrance from the locust-trees,
And drowsy moan of doves, and blur
Of robin-chirps, and drone of bees,
With afterhushes of the stir
Of intermingling sounds, and then
The good-wife and the smile of her
Filling the silences again--
The cricket's call,
And the wee cot,
Dear Lord of all,
Deny me not!

I pray not that Men tremble at My power of place And lordly sway,-- I only pray for simple grace To look my neighbor in the face Full honestly from day to day-- Yield me his horny palm to hold, And I'll not pray For gold;-- The tanned face, garlanded with mirth, It hath the kingliest smile on earth-- The swart brow, diamonded with sweat, Hath never need of coronet. And so I reach, Dear Lord, to Thee, And do beseech Thou givest me The wee cot, and the cricket's chirr, Love, and the glad sweet face of her.

ILLILEO

Illileo, the moonlight seemed lost across the vales-- The stars but strewed the azure as an armor's scattered scales; The airs of night were quiet as the breath of silken sails; And all your words were sweeter than the notes of nightingales.

Illileo Legardi, in the garden there alone, With your figure carved of fervor, as the Psyche carved of stone, There came to me no murmur of the fountain's undertone So mystically, musically mellow as your own.

You whispered low, Illileo--so low the leaves were mute, And the echoes faltered breathless in your voice's vain pursuit; And there died the distant dalliance of the serenader's lute: And I held you in my bosom as the husk may hold the fruit.

Illileo, I listened. I believed you. In my bliss, What were all the worlds above me since I found you thus in this?-- Let them reeling reach to win me--even Heaven I would miss, Grasping earthward!--I would cling here, though I clung by just a kiss!

And blossoms should grow odorless--and lilies all aghast-- And I said the stars should slacken in their paces through the vast, Ere yet my loyalty should fail enduring to the last.-- So vowed I. It is written. It is changeless as the past.

Illileo Legardi, in the shade your palace throws Like a cowl about the singer at your gilded porticos, A moan goes with the music that may vex the high repose Of a heart that fades and crumbles as the crimson of a rose.

THE WIFE-BLESSÉD

I

In youth he wrought, with eyes ablur,
Lorn-faced and long of hair--
In youth--in youth he painted her
A sister of the air--
Could clasp her not, but felt the stir
Of pinions everywhere.

II

She lured his gaze, in braver days,
And tranced him sirenwise;
And he did paint her, through a haze
Of sullen paradise,
With scars of kisses on her face
And embers in her eyes.