“At least, O God, O God Most High,
He loved me truly!” she will cry,
And God will pause before He send
My soul to find its fitting end.
Then, lest heaven’s light should leave her face
To think one loved her and was base,
I will speak out at judgment day,—
“I never loved her!” I will say.
E. Nesbit.
THE KISS.
THE snow is white on wood and wold,
The wind is in the firs,
So dead my heart is with the cold,
No pulse within it stirs,
Even to see your face, my dear,
Your face that was my sun;
There is no spring this bitter year,
And summer’s dreams are done.
The snakes that lie about my heart
Are in their wintry sleep;
Their fangs no more deal sting and smart,
No more they curl and creep.
Love with the summer ceased to be;
The frost is firm and fast.
God keep the summer far from me,
And let the snakes’ sleep last!
Touch of your hand could not suffice
To waken them once more;
Nor could the sunshine of your eyes
A ruined spring restore.
But ah—your lips! You know the rest:
The snows are summer rain,
My eyes are wet, and in my breast
The snakes’ fangs meet again.
E. Nesbit.
THE MILL.
THE wheel goes round, the wheel goes round
With drip and whir and plash,
It keeps all green the grassy ground,
The alder, beech, and ash.
The ferns creep out mid mosses cool,
Forget-me-nots are found
Blue in the shadow by the pool—
And still the wheel goes round.
Round goes the wheel, round goes the wheel,
The foam is white like cream,
The merry waters dance and reel
Along the stony stream.
The little garden of the mill,
It is enchanted ground,
I smell its stocks and wall-flowers still,
And still the wheel goes round.
The wheel goes round, the wheel goes round,
And life’s wheel too must go,—
But all their clamour has not drowned
A voice I used to know.
Her window’s blank. The garden’s bare
As her chill new-made mound,
But still my heart’s delight is there,
And still the wheel goes round.
E. Nesbit.