Under the Wattle

"Why should not wattle do For mistletoe?"

Asked one -- they were but two -- Where wattles grow.

He was her lover, too, Who urged her so -- "Why should not wattle do For mistletoe?"

A rose-cheek rosier grew; Rose-lips breathed low; "Since it is here, and YOU, I hardly know Why wattle should not do."

Victor James Daley.

Players

And after all -- and after all, Our pa.s.sionate prayers, and sighs, and tears, Is life a reckless carnival?

And are they lost, our golden years?

Ah, no; ah, no; for, long ago, Ere time could sear, or care could fret, There was a youth called Romeo, There was a maid named Juliet.

The players of the past are gone; The races rise; the races pa.s.s; And softly over all is drawn The quiet Curtain of the Gra.s.s.

But when the world went wild with Spring, What days we had! Do you forget?

When I of all the world was King, And you were my Queen Juliet?

The things that are; the things that seem -- Who shall distinguish shape from show?

The great processional, splendid dream Of life is all I wish to know.

The G.o.ds their faces turn away From nations and their little wars; But we our golden drama play Before the footlights of the stars.

There lives -- though Time should cease to flow, And stars their courses should forget -- There lives a grey-haired Romeo, Who loves a golden Juliet.

Anna

The pale discrowned stacks of maize, Like spectres in the sun, Stand shivering nigh Avonaise, Where all is dead and gone.

The sere leaves make a music vain, With melancholy chords; Like cries from some old battle-plain, Like clash of phantom swords.

But when the maize was lush and green With musical green waves, She went, its plumed ranks between, Unto the hill of graves.

There you may see sweet flowers set O'er damsels and o'er dames -- Rose, Ellen, Mary, Margaret -- The sweet old quiet names.

The gravestones show in long array, Though white or green with moss, How linked in Life and Death are they -- The Shamrock and the Cross.

The gravestones face the Golden East, And in the morn they take The blessing of the Great High Priest, Before the living wake.

Who was she? Never ask her name, Her beauty and her grace Have pa.s.sed, with her poor little shame, Into the Silent Place.

In Avonaise, in Avonaise, Where all is dead and done, The folk who rest there all their days Care not for moon or sun.

They care not, when the living pa.s.s, Whether they sigh or smile; They hear above their graves the gra.s.s That sighs -- "A little while!"

A white stone marks her small green bed With "Anna" and "Adieu".

Madonna Mary, rest her head On your dear lap of blue!

The Night Ride

The red sun on the lonely lands Gazed, under clouds of rose, As one who under knitted hands Takes one last look and goes.

Then Pain, with her white sister Fear, Crept nearer to my bed: "The sands are running; dost thou hear Thy sobbing heart?" she said.

There came a rider to the gate, And stern and clear spake he: "For meat or drink thou must not wait, But rise and ride with me."

I waited not for meat or drink, Or kiss, or farewell kind -- But oh! my heart was sore to think Of friends I left behind.

We rode o'er hills that seemed to sweep Skyward like swelling waves; The living stirred not in their sleep, The dead slept in their graves.

And ever as we rode I heard A moan of anguish sore -- No voice of man or beast or bird, But all of these and more.

"Is it the moaning of the Earth?

Dark Rider, answer me!"

"It is the cry of life at birth"

He answered quietly:

"But thou canst turn a face of cheer To good days still in store; Thou needst not care for Pain or Fear -- They cannot harm thee more."

Yet I rode on with sullen heart, And said with breaking breath, "If thou art he I think thou art, Then slay me now, O Death!"

The veil was from my eyesight drawn -- "Thou knowest now," said he: "I am the Angel of the Dawn!

Ride back, and wait for me."

So I rode back at morning light, And there, beside my bed, Fear had become a lily white And Pain a rose of red.