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 could he hear its secret cry,
The cry of the dove when the cummers die!
Thrice in the maize he turned to me,
(Oh I saw his soul as I saw the dew!)
But I hid my pain that he might not see—
I hid it deep as the grave is made,
Where the heart that can ache no more is laid.
3