First it is a squirrel, then it is a dove,
Then a red fox feather-soft and footed like a dream;
All the woodland fools me, promising my love;
I think I hear her talking—'tis but the running stream.
Vowelled talking water, mimicking her voice—
O how she promised she'd surely come to-day!
There she comes! she comes at last! O heart of mine rejoice—
Nothing but a flight of birds winging on their way.
Lonely grows the afternoon, empty grows the world;
Day's bright banners in the west one by one are furled,
Sadly sinks the lingering sun that like a lover rose,
One by one each woodland thing loses heart and goes.
Back along the woodland, all the day is dead,
All the green has turned to gray, and all the gold to lead;
O 'tis bitter cruel, sweet, to treat a lover so:
If only I were half a man . . . I'd let the baggage go.
THE RIVAL
She failed me at the tryst:
All the long afternoon
The golden day went by,
Until the rising moon;
But, as I waited on,
Turning my eyes about,
Aching for sight of her,
Until the stars came out,—
Maybe 'twas but a dream—
There close against my face,
"Beauty am I," said one,
"I come to take her place."
And then I understood
Why, all the waiting through,
The green had seemed so green,
The blue had seemed so blue,
The song of bird and stream
Had been so passing sweet,
For all the coming not
Of her forgetful feet;
And how my heart was tranced,
For all its lonely ache,
Gazing on mirrored rushes
Sky-deep in the lake.
Said Beauty: "Me you love,
You love her for my sake."
THE QUARREL
Thou shall not me persuade
This love of ours
Can in a moment fade,
Like summer flowers;
That a swift word or two,
In angry haste,
Our heaven shall undo,
Our hearts lay waste.