“Oh, if it would please God that, when the summer has come, baby and I might die together; for if Hugh can not love me, my sorrow is greater than I could bear.”
CHAPTER XXII.
TWO STRINGS TO ONE BOW.
Over the grass we stepped unto it,
And God He knoweth how blithe we were,
Never a voice to bid us eschew it;
Hey the green ribbon that showed so fair!
The beck grows wider, the hands must sever
On either margin, our songs all done,
We move apart, while she singeth ever
Taking the course of the stooping sun.