CAME, on a Sabbath noon, my sweet,
In white, to find her lover;
The grass grew proud beneath her feet,
The green elm-leaves above her:—
Meet we no angels, Pansie?
She said, ‘We meet no angels now’;
And soft lights stream’d upon her;
And with white hand she touch’d a bough;
She did it that great honour:—
What! meet no angels, Pansie?
O sweet brown hat, brown hair, brown eyes,
Down-dropp’d brown eyes, so tender!
Then what said I? Gallant replies
Seem flattery, and offend her:—
But—meet no angels, Pansie?
To Two Bereaved
YOU must be sad; for though it is to Heaven,
’Tis hard to yield a little girl of seven.
Alas, for me ’tis hard my grief to rule,
Who only met her as she went to school;
Who never heard the little lips so sweet
Say even ‘Good-morning,’ though our eyes would meet
As whose would fain be friends! How must you sigh,
Sick for your loss, when even so sad am I,
Who never clasp’d the small hands any day!
Fair flowers thrive round the little grave, I pray.
THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON
1836-1914