I wonder if the day will ever come
When we will be so old—so old and dull
That we will listen to, yet never heed
The sweetest sound of all the sounds which ring
Out through this world’s big aisles—the rippling laugh
Which comes from red young lips—comes straight from some
Rich storehouse in the breast, a storehouse filled
With gladness great, and hope, and all things good?
She stopped to pluck a bouquet for her gown
From the sweetbriar that nodded in the sun,
And presently I heard a little “Oh!”
Of pain. That hand of hers the briar in greed
Had caught, and held so closely that its mark
Showed plainly on the warm and pink-palmed thing.
But she did pluck it, and its fragrance found
A place among the white folds at her neck,
And in the silken girdle which did creep
About the rounded slimness of her waist.
Then down she sat to rest her for awhile,
And I could hear her crooning to herself:
“O Sweetbriar, growing all alone
In shady, lonesome places,
By all but sun and dew unknown,
How full you are of graces!
O Sweetbriar, with your fragrance rare
You woo me to come nigh you,
Your breath so fills the heavy air
I cannot well pass by you!
O Sweetbriar, growing by the brook
The sleek, fat cattle wade in,
Say, will you share your cozy nook
With me—a happy maiden?
O Sweetbriar, do the dew-drops fall
And make your soft leaves glisten?
O Sweetbriar, does the west wind call,
And do you wait and listen?”
Lac Deschene
O PRETTY, shallow, mimic lake!
Hedged in by rushes and wild rice,
Why is it that the wind can wake
And make you angry in a trice?
You were so peaceful and so still
Before the wind crept round the hill!
The roystering, mischievous wind
That stooped and kissed you as you lay
In sunshine steeped—all bland and kind—
Then racing, went away—away
To stir the languor of the wood,
And make its mutterings understood.