The flowers we pass, the summer brook,
The bird that o'er us darts—
We do not know 'tis they that thrill
Our childish hearts.
The earth-things have no name for us,
The ploughing means no more
Than that they like to walk the fields
Who plough them o'er.
The road, the wood, the heaven, the hills
Are not a World to-day—
But just a place God's made for us
In which to play.
[LISSETTE]
Oh ... there was love in her heart—no doubt of it—
Under the anger.
But see what came out of it!
Not a knave, he!—A Romeo rhyme-smatterer,
Cloaking in languor
And heartache to flatter her.
And just as a woman will—even the best of them—
She yielded—brittle.
God spare me the rest of them!
Aye! though 'twas but kisses—she swore!—he had of her.
For, was it little?
She thought 'twas not bad of her,