Unweariedly he waits from day to day,
Nor knows, as I know now, that when we meet,
'Twill be as dewdrop on the hawthorn spray,—
The ultimate of God at last complete.
He still remembers that my eyes were blue,
Still dreams the autumn russet of my hair;
"In God's own time," he said, "I'll come to you;
You will be waiting; I will find you there!"
But now I know that he must never hear
The message that I promised to impart,
For should I breathe the secret in his ear
His soul would hearken—but 'twould break his heart!
CONFESSION.
As one, a poet of a fairy's train,
Might sit beside a violet's stem and view
Its opening petals, watch the wondrous blue
Thrill through their fibers, and their secret gain
Of how the earth and sky and wind and rain
Had given them life and form and scent and hue,—
So I have gazed into the eyes of you,
Those rare blue eyes, and have not looked in vain;
For they have told me all that I would know,
Even as the violets their secret tell
Unto the wistful spirits of the grove—
Ay, more than this, for, in their tender glow,
I've learned their secret, found their winsome spell,
The sweet and simple message of their love.