Had sped where playtime and boyhood meet;
The gate, forgot, swung ope from the street,
From the highway where the cattle roam,
And Arabs find their kindliest home.
The gate might swing till the twilight hours;
Meantime, alack for the tender flowers!
II.
She, of the high-bred, Christian school,
Soul-lit and sunned of the golden rule.
Questioned she whether! halted she long!
Qualms of propriety right no wrong.
Yield form and fashion their fitting place;
Yet, cramp not the soul in meaner space.
Hence to marauders, and riskings of fate,
She quietly closed—then latched the gate.
Trumpet bequests of the miser-mind,
Who spreads abroad when he cannot bind.
Boast ye those deeds which blazon the name,
Lofty as adamant heights of Fame.