BETWEEN the pansies and the rye
Flutters my purple butterfly;
Between her white brow and her chin,
Does Love his fairy wake begin:
By poppy-cups and drifts of heather,
Dances the sun and she together.
But o’er the scarlet of her mouth
Whence those entreated words come forth,
Love hovers all the livelong day,
And cannot, through its spell, away;
But there, where he was born, must die
Between the pansies and the rye.
Herbert P. Horne.
TWO TRUTHS.
“Darling,” he said, “I never meant
To hurt you;” and his eyes were wet.
“I would not hurt you for the world:
Am I to blame if I forget?”
“Forgive my selfish tears!” she cried,
“Forgive! I knew that it was not
Because you meant to hurt me, sweet,—
I knew it was that you forgot!”
But all the same, deep in her heart
Rankled this thought, and rankles yet,—
“When love is at its best, one loves
So much that he cannot forget.”
Helen Hunt.