She looked in his eyes and blushed,
She hid in his strong arms’ fold;
And the tale of the flower, crushed
And spurned, was once more told.
FORWARD
Let me look always forward. Never back.
Was I not formed for progress? Otherwise
With onward pointing feet and searching eyes
Would God have set me squarely on the track
Up which we all must labour with life’s pack?
Yonder the goal of all this travel lies.
What matters it, if yesterday the skies
With light were golden, or with clouds were black?
I would not lose to-morrow’s glow of dawn
By peering backward after sun’s long set.
New hope is fairer than an old regret;
Let me pursue my journey and press on—
Nor tearful eyed, stand ever in one spot,
A briny statue like the wife of Lot.
IN ENGLAND
In England there are wrongs, no doubt,
Which should be righted; so men say,
Who seek to weed earth’s garden out
And give the roses right of way.
Yes, right of way to fruit and rose,
Where now but poison ivy grows.
In England there is wide unrest
They tell me, who should know. And yet
I saw but hedges gaily dressed,
And eyes, where love and kindness met.
Yes, love and kindness, met and made
Soft sunshine, even in the shade.
In England there are haunting things
Which follow one to other lands;
Like some pervading scent that clings
To laces, touched by vanished hands.
Yes, touched by vanished hands, that gave
A fragrance which defies the grave.
In England, centuries of art
Give common things a mellow tone,
And wake old memories in the heart
Of other lives the soul has known.
Yes, other lives in some past age
Start forth from canvas, or from page.
In England there are simple joys
The modern world has left all sweet;
In London’s heart are nooks, where noise
Has entered but with slippered feet;
Yes, entered softly.
Friend, believe,
To part from England is to grieve.