She who paddles swiftly,
Lithe and brown in the sun,
And dances, lithe as an Indian princess
In the barbaric days of splendour
Might have done—
She can laugh and jest too,
Play and wine and dine;
But none of these things have wooed me,
Bound me close by a mystery,
Made her eternally mine.
For we have found still places
Deep in the wood;
Climbed a ledge of grey rock
Where a pink-legged heron stood;
Heard the distant loon's cry;
Watched a lonely bird fly—
And she does not stir then,
Does not turn to me then,
But softly walks in the forest
In no great need of men.
DOWN NEAR THE GLEN
(In fear of fairies Irish women sometimes disguise
their boys as girls)
"I dress him sweet," the woman told me,
"All in white with a frill of lace.
See his hair
An' the curls that's on it!
Do ye know a girl with a safter face?
"If so I keep him till five or over,
There's not a one will steal him then!
With a saft wee girl
They'd never bother,
The thievin' fairies down in the glen.
"Never take chances!" the woman warned me,
"For a boy is the thing that sticks to your heart!"
But I was mad!
I had decked mine bravely;
He was moulded a man from the very start.
THE BOLSHEVIK
I met a woman of the Ward;
She was in gay attire;
Her blouse was blue, her toes were through,
Her ear-rings flashed like fire.
A little boy with lustrous eyes
Tugged at her coloured skirt;
His skin was warm as the southern born,
And he was caked in dirt.
Two women on the sunny street—
We fell to friendly talk
Of grocers' ways, and how it pays
To purchase as you walk.