I have drawn the corks, and drained the lees
Of every vintage pressed,
If I've felt the sting of my honey bees
I've taken it with the rest.
I have lived my life, and I'll not repine,
As I sowed I was bound to reap;
Then, measure me out, O merchant mine,
Twenty gallons of sleep.
A Confession
You did not know, — how could you, dear, —
How much you stood for? Life in you
Retained its touch of Eden dew,
And ever through the droughtiest year
My soul could bring her flagon here
And fill it to the brim with clear
Deep draughts of purity:
And time could never quench the flame
Of youth that lit me through your eyes,
And cozened winter from my skies
Through all the years that went and came.
You did not know I used your name
To conjure by, and still the same
I found its potency.
You did not know that, as a phial
May garner close through dust and gloom
The essence of a rich perfume,
Romance was garnered in your smile
And touched my thoughts with beauty, while
The poor world, wise with bitter guile,
Outlived its chivalry.
You did not know — our lives were laid
So far apart — that thus I drew
The sunshine of my days from you,
That by your joy my own was weighed
That thus my debts your sweetness paid,
And of my heart's deep silence made
A lovely melody.
Martha M. Simpson.
To an Old Grammar
Oh, mighty conjuror, you raise
The ghost of my lost youth —
The happy, golden-tinted days
When earth her treasure-trove displays,
And everything is truth.
Your compeers may be sage and dry,
But in your page appears
A very fairyland, where I
Played 'neath a changeful Irish sky —
A sky of smiles and tears.
Dear native land! this little book
Brings back the varied charm
Of emerald hill and flashing brook,
Deep mountain glen and woodland nook,
And homely sheltered farm.
I see the hayrick where I sat
In golden autumn days,
And conned thy page, and wondered what
Could be the use, excepting that
It gained the master's praise.