“Very well, then”—lowering his voice—“I am like the old Englishman who said: ‘I have always found a most horrid, romantic perverseness in your sex. To do and to love what you should not is meat, drink and vesture to you all.’ And I also know that—
“Every day her dainty hands make life’s soiled temple clean,
And there’s a wake of glory where her spirit pure hath been.
At midnight through the shadow-land her living face doth gleam,
The dying kiss her shadow, and the dead smile in their dream.”
IN THE GARDEN
THE lily lifts her bridal whiteness up,
And leans a list’ning to th’ impassioned rose,
The dewdrop answer trembles in her cup,
Shines on her silver lip and overflows.
They lean and love for all the world to see,
But thou, my love, thou leanest no more to me!
Oh, mocking-bird, that bosomed in the height
Of yon magnolia, warblest all alone
Thy liquid litany of heart-delight,
While the pure moon steps slowly tow’rd her throne.
Lo! Thou hast lured all joy to soar with thee,
And thou, my love, thou sing’st no more to me.
Oh, one white star in all the blue abyss!
Oh, trembling star that lookest on my pain!
So shook my soul beneath his parting kiss,
So waits my heart, alone and all in vain.
Oh, Night, sweet Night, I bare my grief to thee—
Oh, world, far off, give back my love to me!
Margaret Houston.