And carried my song with prudence home;

And nailed it as motto above my door.

Now, the angels in heaven will crown me with bays;

And give me a golden trumpet to blow

When at last I die, full of virtuous days ...

But my wild, wild love—will she ever know?

III. A POETRY-PARTY

Fronting a Dear Child and an Infamy

You sat; and watched, with dusk-on-the-mountain eyes,

The marching river of the beer go by,