Place the letters, still faintly sweet,
Against the gash in its dark-hued side ...
Its the violin—not Love—that died.
A SKETCH
I HEAR him humming as he drives his car,
In mellow baritone, an ancient psalm—
Drifting down to his subtle modern brain
From his old covenanting ancestors,
Who strode bare-kneed through purple heather bloom,
Praising their God on wind-swept Highland hills.