Their beauty lays no hand on me,
They talk—- I hear no word;
I ask my eyes if they have seen,
My ears if they have heard.
For why—within the north countree
A little maid, I know,
Is waiting through the days for me,
Drear days so long and slow.
THE WONDER-CHILD
'Our little babe,' each said, 'shall be
Like unto thee'—'Like unto thee!'
'Her mother's'—'Nay, his father's'—'eyes,'
'Dear curls like thine'—but each replies,
'As thine, all thine, and nought of me.'
What sweet solemnity to see
The little life upon thy knee,
And whisper as so soft it lies,—
'Our little babe!'
For, whether it be he or she,
A David or a Dorothy,
'As mother fair,' or 'father wise,'
Both when it's 'good,' and when it cries,
One thing is certain,—it will be
Our little babe.
MISCELLANEOUS
THE HOUSE OF VENUS
Not that Queen Venus of adulterous fame,
Whose love was lust's insatiable flame—
Not hers the house I would be singer in
Whose loose-lipped servants seek a weary sin:
But mine the Venus of that morning flood
With all the dawn's young passion in her blood,
With great blue eyes and unpressed bosom sweet.
Her would I sing, and of the shy retreat
Where Love first kissed her wondering maidenhood,
And He and She first stood, with eyes afraid,
In the most golden House that God has made.