NEW NEIGHBORS.
Within the window's scant recess,
Behind a pink geranium flower,
She sits and sews, and sews and sits,
From patient hour to patient hour.
As woman-like as marble is,
Or as a lovely death might be—
A marble death condemned to make
A feint at life perpetually.
Wondering, I watch to pity her;
Wandering, I go my restless ways;
Content, I think the untamed thoughts
Of free and solitary days,
Until the mournful dusk begins
To drop upon the quiet street,
Until, upon the pavement far,
There falls the sound of coming feet:
A happy, hastening, ardent sound,
Tender as kisses on the air—
Quick, as if touched by unseen lips
Blushes the little statue there;
And woman-like as young life is,
And woman-like as joy may be,
Tender with color, lithe with love,
She starts, transfigured gloriously.
Superb in one transcendent glance—
Her eyes, I see, are burning black—
My little neighbor, smiling, turns,
And throws my unasked pity back.
I wonder, is it worth the while,
To sit and sew from hour to hour—
To sit and sew with eyes of black,
Behind a pink geranium flower?
BY THE HEARTH.
You come too late;
'Tis far on in November.
The wind strikes bleak
Upon the cheek
That careth rather to keep warm,
(And where 's the harm?)
Than to abate
One jot of its calm color for your sake.
Watch! See! I stir the ember
Upon my lonely hearth and bid the fire wake.
And think you that it will?
'T is burned, I say, to ashes.
It smoulders cold
As grave-yard mould.
I wish indeed you would not blow
Upon it so!
The dead to kill.
I say, the ghosts of fires will never stir,
Nor woman lift the lashes
Of eyes wept dim, howe'er yours shine for love of her!
Ah, sweet surprise! did not think such shining
Upon the gloom
Of this cold room
Could fall. Your even, strong, calm breath
Calls life from death.
The warm light lies
At your triumphant feet, faint with desire
To reach you. See! The lining
Of violet and of silver in that sheath of fire!
If you would care—
Although it is November—
I will not say
A bitter nay
To such a gift for building fires.
And though it tires
Me to think of it—I 'll own to you
(If you can stir the ember)
It may be found at last, just warm enough for two!