YOUTH O' THE YEAR
"Write me," she ordered, nodding her head,
"A song of the rippling Spring that is gone—
A song that's different from songs that are dead—
Different as sunset is from the dawn.
Sparkling with happiness, heavy with dew,
Trilling and thrilling, all the way through;
Fill it with heaven's own laughing blue—
Write it!" she said. So I wrote it—"Love's Pawn."
I spoke of the sunshine caught in her hair;
I sang of the peach blossom's pink in her face;
I mentioned the heavenly blue with great care
That colored her wonderful eyes. And her grace
I likened to that of a slender young tree
Bowing and laughing when breezes blow free;
In fact, there was naught in the Spring I could see
Save this girl who with Love would ever keep pace.
She took it and read it, that poor thing of mine—
Old as a saga, young as the year—
Drank in the similes (flattering wine!),
Then gave her verdict, "You are a dear;
Surely no girl ever had such a song
Written for her; I will treasure it long;
It's so original—clever—and strong;
How could you know me so well—in one year?"
I read it myself—and grew red, I confess,
As a good workman should, when a poor job is done;
But the joy of her laugh and the sweet, swift caress
Overpaid me, a hundred to one!...
And then as she stood on the brow of the hill
And swayed in the wind, as Youth ever will,
I think that I heard her silv'ry laugh trill ...
But perish the thought that she'd spoken in fun!
UNFINISHED
The radiant dawn flows up the empty sky,
Its singing colors heralding the day,
And yet, before the tardy sun is high,
Unfinished morning fades and slips away.
While Nature holds her fragrant breath at dawn
Watching the loveliness she's made—it's gone!
From dew-drenched garden thrills a thrush's call—
That liquid note that all night long was stilled—
The living chalice, brown and bright and small,
Seems with the joy of living overfilled—
Then suddenly, unfinished, clear and sweet
The song is drowned in noises from the street.
So at the edge of dusk my love for you
Would speak to your white soul, would humbly come
To tell the age-old story, ever new—
But in the pulsing twilight Love is dumb!
Oh, heart of mine, within your quiet breast
Unfinished dawn—and song—and love—find rest!