The Sad Years

Front matter

| THE SAD YEARS

DORA SIGERSON

DORA SIGERSON

The Sad Years

THE SAD YEARS

Thou hast encompassed us, indeed, O Lord, With these sad years. Where does the failure lie Of this Thy man, made to Thy likeness, since Within the golden mirror of the sun Thou gavest Thy sweet loveliness and didst Then gather dust to mould him to Thy shape, And stood him upright on Thy holy palm To view his form and praise Thy handiwork? Is this Thy likeness then, Thy perfect mould, Thy hands, Thy feet, Thy voice, Thy sacred heart, A god in miniature, of Eden made?

Hands, hands, hands, tearing, grasping, slaying, Cold, stiff, still, soothing, strangling, praying. Feet, feet, feet, running, toiling, stamping, Crushing, killing, falling, stumbling, tramping. Cries, cries, cries, brutal, broken, wailing, Sobbing, helpless, anguished, dying, failing. Hearts, hearts, hearts, loving, hating, seeking, Hearts of all Thy children, breaking, breaking.

Is this, indeed, Thy man, that Thou hast made, Is this Thy likeness, and are these Thy ways? Oh, Lord of pity, quench these flaming hours, Restore to peace these sad and tortured years Wherein Thou breakest the frail heart of man —Or he the heart of God.

Progress: 1914-1918

PROGRESS: 1914-1918

Lo! I am athirst,” said the brown earth, “And I would drink my fill.” “Have I not slaked thee, cried the grey skies, “From river, stream, and rill?”

“I would have wine,” said the hot earth, “Red wine from hearts afire.” “Lo! thou shalt arise,” cried the fierce sun, “Clad in a new attire.”

“My fruit abundant,” said the fair earth, “As never seen before.” “Gladly shall I bear,” cried the proud tree, “That ripe and luscious store.”

“My cloth so radiant,” said the vain earth, “Shall wrap me in its sheen.” “Deeply shall we weave,” cried the slim grass, “In tender gold and green.”

“Lo! I am athirst,” said the hot earth, “And I would quench my fears.” “Then thou shalt taste,” cried the young maid, “The bitter sweet of tears.”

“Have I not held them,” said the old earth, “The dead unto my heart?” “Under my white robe,” cried the chill wind, “So a new spring should start.”

“Men must pale and die,” said the black earth, “So men may rise and live;” “And I was born thus,” cried the great town, “In blood they slew to give.”

“Grant to me red wine,” said the brown earth, “Else do I droop and tire.” “As in the great past,” cried the pale hills, “We drank of hearts afire.”

“In war have I grown,” said the fierce earth, “Man against his brother.” “Death's sheaves have fed thee,” said the green woods, “Beast slaying one the other.”

“I have built my state,” said the proud earth, “In strife and foul dissension;” “Thy church uprising,” cried the grey rocks, “From blood and hot contention.”

“Lo! I am athirst,” sighed the brown earth, “Grant me red wine to spend.” “As it was in the beginning,” said the great hills, “And shall be to the end.”

October 1915

OCTOBER, 1915

When the white rose and the red spill their leaves upon the way, Make a scented path to tread through the long, sun-haunted day; I half-dreaming all forget in the summer's idle grace, That the city's claim will come, bid me back into my place.

How can I go forth again to the hot and restless town, Where the stranger people pass ever careless up and down, Where convention chills each hand from a kind and friendly hold? Here the robin to my call cheerful comes, alert and bold.

Summer with her pretty ways now is taking leave of me, Slow the ling'ring roses fall, softly sings the honey-bee, How can I go back again to the horrors of the town, Where the husky voice of war fiercely echoes up and down?

The Question

THE QUESTION

Give me the heavy sleep, the dreamless slumber Nor shrouded grief nor sorrow will encumber. Let me but sleep as he whose labour-hand Hath tilled the sod and ploughed the pleasant land, But, God ! to dream, to wake, and dream again, Where screams red war in harvesting dead men. Ah! dream of home, of love, of joy, all thrilling, To wake once more to killing, killing, killing.

Give me the hunter's hand, the patriot's fervour To hold death naught, or for my land to serve her, Slay and still slay, with heart that holds no sorrow For these dead men and all their carnal horror. Was I not one who loved my land for growing Sweet, eager life, and pretty things all blowing? How glad these hands to give their toil, how willing, That now, O God ! grow strong in killing, killing.

I never see a young face grey in dying But from my blade I hear a woman crying:

“Spare, spare my child!” or screams my bullet, saying, “Stay, stay thy flight! My father thou art slaying.” All summer through I heard from each pale sleeper, “Thou shalt not kill.” “Am I my brother's keeper?” I fain replied. And now comes dread December, With “Peace on Earth.” O God! dare I remember? “To men goodwill.” Am I Thy laws fulfilling Who run red-handed—killing, killing, killing?

The Human Touch

THE HUMAN TOUCH

She made roses all the day for pretty ladies' wear, All through the patient hours, half into the night. Dragged into a hurried knot all her dusty hair, Eyes foolish with fatigue, straining to the light.

Pretty ladies roamed away over land and sea, Talked on foreign boulevard, laughed in gay bazaar; Followed summer's sunny road planning times to be, Happy hours of holiday, as the seasons are.

She made roses all the day for pretty ladies' wear, All through the long day, half into the night. Followed all the toiling hours with a dumb despair Lest they overtake her skill in their hurried flight.

Pretty ladies in the park driving up and down, Chatting of the horrid war, strolling on the grass, Shopping long in Regent Street, over cloak or gown, Waving hand or handkerchief as the soldiers pass.

She made roses all the day for pretty ladies' wear, Threepence for a dozen such, working to the night. Just an hour of holiday left her cupboard bare, She knew naught of Regent Street or of war's affright.

Sudden in a dusky hour came a stranger bird, To the frightened city's gloom, in her silent race Flew to drop her evil egg where the slow winds stirred Wrapping mist from some rich store for her nesting place.

But the pitying breath of night blowing from the west Blew the evil bird to go in the smoke and gloom, So that sudden death might bring for the toiler rest— Give her splendid liberty from her prison room.

She had never time to weep, dim eyes and holiday, Left her roses all unborn, left the cupboard bare. Now she cried and rising flung roses all away, Swift as any lady ran down the narrow stair.

All the pretty ladies prayed, with uplifted glance, Thanked God that each lovely life had not met its doom, She prayed in her prison place for the “lucky chance” That had saved her sweated life from the restful tomb.

Thanked God she made roses still for pretty ladies' wear, Threepence for a dozen such, working to the night. Dragged into a hurried knot all her dusty hair— Eyes foolish with fatigue straining to the light.

The Road of the Refugees

THE ROAD OF THE REFUGEES

Listen to the tramping! Oh, God of pity, listen! Can we kneel at prayer, sleep all unmolested, While the echo thunders?—God of pity, listen! Can we think of prayer—or sleep—so arrested?

Million upon million fleeing feet in passing Trample down our prayers—trample down our sleeping; How the patient roads groan beneath the massing Of the feet in going, bleeding, running, creeping!

Clank of iron shoe, unshod hooves of cattle, Pad of roaming hound, creak of wheel in turning, Clank of dragging chain, harness ring and rattle, Groan of breaking beam, crash of roof-tree burning.

Listen to the tramping!—God of love and pity! Million upon million fleeing feet in passing Driven by the war out of field and city, How the sullen road echoes to the massing!

Little feet of children, running, leaping, lagging, Toiling feet of women, wounded, weary guiding, Slow feet of the aged, stumbling, halting, flagging, Strong feet of the men loud in passion striding.

Hear the lost feet straying, from the roadway slipping, They will walk no longer in this march appalling; Hear the sound of rain dripping, dripping, dripping, Is it rain or tears? What, O God, is falling?

Hear the flying feet! Lord of love and pity! Crushing down our prayers, tramping down our sleeping, Driven by the war out of field and city, Million upon million, running, bleeding, creeping.

Herod

HEROD

The Virgin speaks:

Draw back the starry curtains of the night, O Cherubim, and Seraphim! Pull back the purple curtains of the night, For I would look once more upon the world, That ere my sorrows made some young delight In bird and bee and each earth-flower uncurled.

Cherubim: “Sancta Virgo Virginum.”

Let me behold a garden rich with fruit, The pomegranate in shade of cypress trees, Vines and wild honey, and the small bees' lute, Where aromatic spices fill the breeze.

Seraphim: “Virgo fidelis.”

Let me behold again all unafraid, Fair Bethlehem and grey Egyptian sands, Let me but see the spreading cedar's shade Where once I hid in half-forgotten lands.

Cherubim: “Mater amabilis.”

Let me but watch the little goats that leap On the rough rocks that circle Galilee, And I would hear the swelling waves that creep To strike strong music from the changing sea.

Seraphim: “Mater admirabilis.”

Draw back the purple curtain. I would find A people, then unborn, yet for whose sake I was most blessèd amongst womankind, And bore God's son their heavy sins to take Upon himself, so He in anguish died, To teach them all to love and live in peace. Draw now the starry curtains well aside, And all the lights of Heaven swift release.

Cherubim: “Mater Christi.”

What comes to me from far-off broken years? A voice in Rama, mourning her sad lot ! Great lamentations, women's cries and tears, A Rachel mourns her children who were not.

Seraphim: “Consolatrix afflictorum.”

I hear again from out the singing spheres A mother's scream, and all her whispered prayer Stabbed by her anguish, faint beneath her fears, I hide once more upon that far earth there.

Cherubim: “Regina Martyrum.”

Draw close the starry curtains of the night Lest Heaven fade and I forget to pray; Here God is love, we hate nor suffer fight, What Herod lives upon the earth to-day?

| Cherubim: | “Da pacem, Domine, sustinentibus te, ut Prophetae tui fideles inveniantur.”

| Seraphim: | “Pacem relinquo vobis, pacem meam do vobis, dicit Dominus.”

Cherubim and Seraphim: Alleluia.

The Hours of Illness

THE HOURS OF ILLNESS

How slow creeps time! I hear the midnight chime, And now late revellers prepare for sleep; A last gay voice rings in a passing rhyme, And past my door the anxious footsteps creep.

The little clocks from hidden places call, 'Tis one o'clock; downstairs the big clock's bell Tolls deep, and then comes forth the merry chime, Like laughing children calling, “All is well!”

'Tis two o'clock ! Why in the lonesome room This creak and crack, if there be no one here? Whose feet disturb the loose board of the floor? Whose secret presence fills the dark with fear?

'Tis three o'clock! O God, when comes sweet rest? To sleep, to sleep, within this sleeping house, Where all could wake with less fatigue than I, Where no one stirs save some adventurous mouse!

'Tis four o'clock! Death stands at my bed-head In meditation deep, with hidden face, And I alone—a coward—alone, afraid, Lest he from his dread brow the shroud displace.

'Tis five o'clock! Within the empty room, Threading their way, the happy dead appear, More living than the quick in this still night— All whom I loved or held me ever dear.

'Tis six o'clock! Death moves from my bed-head, Flings high the shroud from off his hidden face. “O gentle death! O fair and lovely shade, Lift this sad spirit from its dwelling-place!”

The clock at seven! Hear the milkman come. Loud clangs the gate; the room is chill and dark. The maid, reluctant rising, frees the door; A dog runs forth with shrill, offensive bark.

The clock strikes eight! The curtains pulled aside Let in the light, so cold, so bleak, so grey. From their dark hiding come familiar things, And through my window looks another day.

To Bid Her Live

TO BID HER LIVE

Bring to her spring flowers, Cowslip and celandine, And bid her hear the blackbird's song. Let pass the sunny hours In her dull room to shine, Lay cherry blossom her thin arm along.

Bring all the sweets of June, Pale viola and rue, Garlands of fragrant roses, pink and white. The young birds' broken tune, The larkspur gold and blue, Let in the gentle harping of the night.

When russet autumn comes, Lad's-love and lavender Fling on her bed. Go, shake red apples down, Sun-kissed and purple plums, The sweet and luscious pear, Bring her on leaves of crimson, green, and brown.

When comes the winter snow, Then close the shutters tight To hide the falling leaves and stricken tree, The silent birds that go, Through cold and cheerless light, And winter's shroud on all life's liberty.

Bear her the holly bough, And on the glowing hearth Let twisted flame and rebel fires roar. Bid laughing children now Dance round her in their mirth, And call her fainting spirit home once more— Oh, call her, call her, call her home once more!

If You Should Pass

IF YOU SHOULD PASS

If by my tomb some day you careless pass, A moment grieved by coming on my name, Ah! kneel awhile upon the tender grass In some short prayer acquitting me of blame.

If I reached not your pinnacle of right, Or fell below your standard of desire, If to my heart alone my hopes were white, And my soul built its own celestial fire,

Then let your grief, be it a single tear, Upon your cheek in tender sorrow fall, Forget where I did fail; keep only dear The deeds for which you loved me over all.

For ah ! to hear, poor shade from life shut out, Unkindly tongues to trifle with my name, So that remembrance came half-chilled with doubt In conversations less of praise than blame.

For if thy charity be overstrained And would bring slander where it cannot bless, Give me but silence where good friendship waned, Grant me the mercy of forgetfulness.

The Two Prayers

THE TWO PRAYERS

Lord! when they came and stood upon my way, With “One is dead,” I paused awhile to pray, In brief thanksgiving that I still did live On the good earth that had so much to give. Through my sweet garden softly did I go To lift some lily's head that hung too low, Or bind a rebel rose that sought to stray Across my path. More dear were they to-day When I did live who might as he be dead. “Was ever world so fair,” I whisp'ring said. “Thank God for eyes, for ears, for strength, for breath, All that he hath not who hath tasted death.”

But when they went in silence, to my heart Their pity pierced. Then came the poisoned dart, With “He is dead.” I flung me low to pray. “Lord, I have watched through the uncertain day When he was far, and ev'ry throbbing hour, Half lost in fear the joy of bird or flower. And new alarm I found did some sharp cry

Come from the street, or did a foot pass by Swift in its going. All did threaten him. Hear me, O Lord, who sip at sorrow's brim. Take thou these eyes, these ears, this strength, this breath. All that he hath not, who hath tasted death.”

Mother

MOTHER

If I should rise amidst the assembled dead, Calling for thee, whose fond hands often led Me in young years, in that far unknown place To help me there, and could not find thy face!

If thou wouldst find that mother who was free To call thee hers, as I have need of thee; Or I stood lost, all fear and dread amaze, On death's great plains and solitary ways!

Ah, no, ah, no, less child than mother thou! Have I not seen those gentle eyes, that brow, Bent o'er me hours less grievous than to-day, When on some childhood's bed I fevered lay?

Couldst thou behold me sad and full of tears For those I left, nor chide my lonesome fears With the old smile on thy remembered face, Holding me, wearied so from life's hard race?

Safe in this thought, I give myself to sleep— Sleep that may wake from slumber yet more deep, So when I rise from all death's dread alarms, I see thy face and find my mother's arms.

For He Had Great Possessions

FOR HE HAD GREAT POSSESSIONS

And I had died before the spring had come, When winter's kiss upon the fields was cold, And no small seed had broken up the land, Then had I died, whose earthly hours were told.

I should have liked to see the snowdrop rise, And pressed my lips upon the primrose bowl, To see the thousand spear-heads of new grass, But death had called to my half-willing soul.

And as I passed there came the sound of tears, Disturbing me and dropping o'er my face; I could not plead for mercy from their grief With “Stay thy tears that chill my resting-place.”

But I returned, in pity for their lot, Stood by my bed to see my kindred there; About my house I heard their footsteps go, Finding my goods and seeking each his share.

My desk, my shelf, my very roof-tree's shade They sought for long, and o'er my lands did stray, And then returned and by my corpse knelt down With folded hands to murmur, “Let us pray.”

And as they bent by the mysterious dead, Naked of all, from all possessions free, I saw each face—and went new worlds to meet, For what was I to them, or they to me?

The Sea-Mew

THE SEA-MEW

I had loved the pretty birds that by my window sung— The gentle thrush that had his nest the perfumed pines among; The chaffinch with his sudden note, his song so clear and bold; The sad rhyme of the robin, too, that came when winds grew cold;

The happy lark whose benison fell from the sunny sky; The blackbird with his golden lute that serenaded by: The nightingale that through the night told his low rosary; The finches, with their little tunes, were all beloved by me.

I leaned to hear each lovely note through each enchanted day! And thought no minstrelsy so fine, while all content I lay,

When to my ear, across the sky, I heard a sea-bird's scream, And, flapping slow across the blue, I saw him flash and gleam.

I cared not then for singing birds, I loved the sun no more. I heard the plashing of the waves upon a far-off shore, And lonely, lonely cried my heart in answer to its call— Ah, best I held the sea-mew's note that had no song at all!

Loves Me? Loves Me Not?

LOVES ME? LOVES ME NOT?

I shall rest no more on the fragrant mosses Under great trees where the green bough tosses Scents of the lime; and the wild rose flinging Sweets to the breeze with their censer swinging, I shall count no more, as I linger lazy Deep in the mead, from the pink-tipped daisy, “Who loves me well, and who leaves me lonely? Who loves me not, and who loves me only?”

I shall walk no more by the great sea dreaming Secret dreams, with the black gull screaming, Child of the cliff and the wan wave falling, Songless he cries with no bird-like calling. I shall seek no more for the sea-shell's story By the wet sands in the sunset glory, Hear the sea call from the spiral hollow, “Soul who is seeking, dare you not follow?”

Whom have I loved, and who loved me only? I shall stand in the churchyard lonely,

And see the tombs of the dear departed, Read of the love of the broken-hearted Writ on the stones how they loved them only, Who loved them well and who left them lonely? Yea! I shall see all the cold white faces Lying so still in their secret places.

Under the earth goes the last new-comer, What were the life of her, winter-summer! What if her silent grave holds one only Who loved her well, and who left her lonely?

The Swallow

THE SWALLOW

How I hate the sparrows, the sparrows, the sparrows. In and out and round the house all the live-long day, Chirping shrill and fussy birds, with their silly petty minds, Chittering and chattering, yet having naught to say.

How I love the swallows, the swallows, the swallows, Coming from a far land of minaret and dome. I have got a small room, like a clinging cosy nest, Built upon the gable-end of my country home.

On its wall the swallows house, who can find its secret door? Such a cunning nursery, made with Eastern art. I can hear the baby ones, in their first, swift, troubled flight, Giving little frightened cries as they swoop and dart.

And I hear the swallow-folk telling tales of foreign climes, In a low sweet lullaby long before the day.

Little brothers of the wind, children of the summer time, Lovers of the summer sky, swift you fly away!

I will dream the lone long hours, sick sad days, and weary nights; If I should grow well again I will follow too, See their distant happy homes, built with their strange Eastern art; I shall seek but smiling lands, skies forever blue.

And when swallows come again over all the changing sea, Back to where their empty nests still do cling and stay, I shall have a cabin, too, hidden 'neath its golden thatch, Snow-white on a mountain side, built of Irish clay.

I will leave the sparrows here, all the silly noisy birds, In and out and round the home all the live-long day, Chirping shrill and fussy ones, with their shallow sparrow minds, Chittering and chattering, yet having naught to say.

The Secret

THE SECRET

I know of a thrush's nest, a pretty nest, a cosy nest, I know of a thrush's nest with three fine eggs of blue; It is in the perfumed pine, the tasselled pine, the swaying pine, It is in the cool dark wood that I have wandered through.

I know of a speckled trout, a noble trout, a shining trout, I know of a splendid trout, the biggest I have seen; It is by the lonely mill, the silent mill, the old spade mill, It is in the running brook, for I did look and lean.

I know of a pretty maid, a laughing maid, a happy maid, I know of a darling maid, oh, sweet she is and fair; She waits in a garden bower, a rosy bower, a hidden bower, What the way to this dear maid—is neither here nor there!

I Want to Talk to Thee

I WANT TO TALK TO THEE

I want to talk to thee of many things Or sit in silence when the robin sings His little song, when comes the winter bleak I want to sit beside thee, cheek by cheek.

I want to hear thy voice my name repeat, To fill my heart with echoes ever sweet; I want to hear thy love come calling me, I want to seek and find but thee, but thee.

I want to talk to thee of little things So fond, so frail, so foolish that one clings To keep them ours — who could but understand A joy in speaking them, thus hand in hand

Beside the fire; our joys, our hopes, our fears, Our secret laughter, or unchidden tears; Each day old dreams come back with beating wings, I want to speak of these forgotten things.

I want to feel thy arms around me pressed, To hide my weeping eyes upon thy breast; I want thy strength to hold and comfort me For all the grief I had in losing thee.

Comfort the Women

COMFORT THE WOMEN

A Prayer in Time of War

Whence comes the rain that ceaselessly doth fall, And seems to hold the bitter taste of tears? Is it the lonely sorrow of the night Where patient women shed their hopes and fears?

Where mothers' hearts, that are too brave to break, Cry in the silence what they hid by day; As from the tear-drenched pillow they arise, Proud with the dawn, and shut their grief away?

Whence comes the rain? Is it from Angel eyes That from the neutral plains of Heaven gaze Upon this tortured earth? They hear us pray, And see our strife, in pity and amaze;

Calling on Him, again so crucified, In divers tongues each righteous cause to care; Rage unto rage, hate unto hate, doth shake The doors of Heaven with its impotent prayer.

And shall my cry be heard, that calls so faint, Through scream of shell and mighty cannon's roar. Through thunder of the voices that appeal For His protection at God's closed door?

“Comfort the women, Lord, my neutral prayer May reach Thy pity where those others fail; Comfort the women in these warring lands Who through the battles go, helpless and frail.”

Dim are their eyes that watch the marching past Of all the splendid manhood and strong youth, Breaking their hearts, who are so proudly still Lest their beloved should suffer at the truth.

'Twas not for this barbarity of war The mother breathless hung by the small cot That held her man-child, fearing lest a wind Would blow too chill, or sun would shine too hot.

Or stayed her swifter feet so he might run Not lost behind, and with all gentle hand Holding him hers, who now has left her lone. Comfort the mothers, Lord, through each sad land.

Protect the women—they so helpless slain By each sharp sword that strikes a dear one down, Who on the battlefield in spirit go Without the war's red splendour or renown.

Lord, 'mid this discord of Thy Christian world, 'Mid the loud praying of men's hopes and fears, Comfort the women, let this cry be heard, For Thou hast known a human mother's tears.

The Sinking Ship

THE SINKING SHIP

The ship is sinking, come ye one and all. Stand fast and so this weakness overhaul, Come ye strong hands and cheery voices call, “Stand by!”

The ship is sinking in a summer sea, Bless her but once for all she used to be, Who rode the billows once so proud and free, If you but loved a little, with a sigh, “Standby!”

Gone, all are gone, they neither hear or care, The sun shines on and life is ever fair. They shun the struggle, laughter lurks elsewhere. The ship is sinking, passing echoes cry, “Stand by!”

The little ships that pass her in the night, Speed from the darkness in their eager fright. From troubled dreams they take refuge in flight. Why should they then, who know they too must die, “Standby”?

Then get you gone, desert the sinking ship, O faithless friends, who on her pleasure-trip Clung close with gentle words and smiling lip, And still as ever on your own joys cry, “Stand by!”

The ship is sinking, parting in a smile, The sunset waters mark the last sad mile In dimpling play and in a little while The waters close, Death and his angels cry, “Stand by!”

Nora

NORA

Within an English village yesterday I came upon a little child at play. I lingered by to watch the baby game, And heard some voice call gently on her name.

Sweet she replied. How leaped my heart to hear The pretty notes, the accent ever dear, Shy as the wind soft singing from the South! I, hungry, kissed the brogue upon her mouth.

The Loiterer

THE LOITERER

When Youth, led on by love and folly, strays, Kissing sweet eyes beyond the allotted hour That he should turn to labour and forget Beyond his window beauty breaks to flower.

O greybeard, pause before thy anger strikes Those joyful moments from his happy face. They make a glory of his sullen task And turn his workshop to a godly place.

Thou couldst not scold if by thy window wide A mating thrush his love-song softly sung, And the green horn of Spring blew Summer airs That once thou chorused well when thou wert young.

Then, greybeard, chase the frown from off thy brow, Since Time, alas! will soon belabour him; And think what would become of joyous Spring Were hoary Winter to be always grim.

The Patchwork Quilt

THE PATCHWORK QUILT

Bring to me white roses, roses, pinks, and lavender, Sweet stock and gillyflowers, poppies mauve and red, Bee-flowers and mignonette, with blue forget-me-not— I would make a coverlet for my narrow bed.

Bring me no silken cloth, velvet sheen or satin shine, Gossamer of woven lace, gold and silver thread, Purple deep and dove, and grey, through my idle fingers fall, Bidding me in patient hours make a patchwork spread.

Since I must go forth alone, far beyond the roof-tree's shade, Out into the open soon lonely there to lie, What want I of silken cloth woven by the hands of men? Time would soon despoil me there as he passed me by.

Bring to me white roses then, roses, pinks and lavender, Sweet stock and gillyflowers, poppies gold and red, Bee-flowers and mignonette and blue forget-me-not, So I have a coverlet for my narrow bed.

Ourselves Alone

OURSELVES ALONE

One morning, when dreaming in deep meditation, I met a sweet colleen a-making her moan. With sighing and sobbing she cried and lamented: “Oh where is my lost one, and where has he flown?”