They meet to say farewell: Their way
Of saying this is hard to say—.
He holds her hand an Instant, wholly
Distressed— and she unclasps it slowly,
He lends his gaze evasively
Over the printed page that she
Recurs to, with a new-moon shoulder
Glimpsed from the lace-mists that infold her.
The clock, beneath its crystal cup,
Discreetly clicks— "Quick! Act! Speak up!"
A tension circles both her slender
Wrists— and her raised eyes flash in splendor,
Even as he feels his dazzled own—.
Then blindingly, round either thrown,
They feel a stress of arms that ever
Strain tremblingly— and "Never! Never!"
Is whispered brokenly, with half
A sob, like a belated laugh—,
While cloyingly their blurred kiss closes—,
Sweet as the dew's lip to the rose's.
John McKeen
John McKeen, in his rusty dress,
His loosened collar, and swarthy throat,
His face unshaven, and none the less,
His hearty laugh and his wholesomeness,
And the wealth of a workman's vote!
Bring him, O Memory, here once more,
And tilt him back in his Windsor chair
By the kitchen stove, when the day is o'er
And the light of the hearth is across the floor,
And the crickets everywhere!
And let their voices be gladly blent
With a watery jingle of pans and spoons,
And a motherly chirrup of sweet content,
And neighborly gossip and merriment,
And old-time fiddle-tunes!
Tick the clock with a wooden sound,
And fill the hearing with childish glee
Of rhyming riddle, or story found
In the Robinson Crusoe, leather-bound
Old book of the Used-to-be!
John McKeen of the Past! Ah John,
To have grown ambitious in worldly ways—!
To have rolled your shirt-sleeves down, to don
A broadcloth suit, and forgetful, gone
Out on election days!
John ah, John! Did it prove your worth
To yield you the office you still maintain—?
To fill your pockets, but leave the dearth
Of all the happier things on earth
To the hunger of heart and brain?
Under the dusk of your villa trees,
Edging the drives where your blooded span
Paw the pebbles and wait your ease—,
Where are the children about your knees,
And the mirth, and the happy man?
The blinds of your mansion are battened to;
Your faded wife is a close recluse;
And your "finished" daughters will doubtless do
Dutifully all that is willed of you,
And marry as you shall choose—!
But O for the old-home voices, blent
With the watery jingle of pans and spoons,
And the motherly chirrup of glad content,
And neighborly gossip and merriment,
And the old-time fiddle-tunes!
Out of Nazareth
"He shall sleep unscathed of thieves
Who loves Allah and believes."
Thus heard one who shared the tent,
In the far-off Orient,
Of the Bedouin ben Ahrzz—
Nobler never loved the stars
Through the palm-leaves nigh the dim
Dawn his courser neighed to him!
He said: "Let the sands be swarmed
With such thieves as I, and thou
Shalt at morning rise unharmed,
Light as eyelash to the brow
Of thy camel amber-eyed,
Ever munching either side,
Striding still, with nestled knees,
Through the midnight's oases."
"Who can rob thee an thou hast
More than this that thou hast cast
At my feet— this dust of gold?
Simply this and that, all told!
Hast thou not a treasure of
Such a thing as men call love?"
"Can the dusky band I lead
Rob thee of thy daily need
Of a whiter soul, or steal
What thy lordly prayers reveal?
Who could be enriched of thee
By such hoard of poverty
As thy niggard hand pretends
To dole me— thy worst of friends?
Therefore shouldst thou pause to bless
One indeed who blesses thee:
Robbing thee, I dispossess
But myself—. Pray thou for me!"
He shall sleep unscathed of thieves
Who loves Allah and believes.