The marchioness there, of Carabas, She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still; And but for her--well, we'll let that pa.s.s; She may marry whomever she will.

But I will marry my own first love, With her primrose face, for old things are best; And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above The brooch in my lady's breast.

The world is filled with folly and sin, And love must cling where it can, I say: For beauty is easy enough to win; But one isn't loved every day,

And I think in the lives of most women and men, There's a moment when all would go smooth and even, If only the dead could find out when To come back, and be forgiven.

But oh the smell of that jasmine flower!

And oh, that music! and oh, the way That voice rang out from the donjon tower, _Non ti scordar di me_, _Non ti scordar di me!_

_Robert Bulwer Lytton._

[Footnote A: A line in the opera "II Trovatore" meaning "Do not forget me."]

My Prairies

I love my prairies, they are mine From zenith to horizon line, Clipping a world of sky and sod Like the bended arm and wrist of G.o.d.

I love their gra.s.ses. The skies Are larger, and my restless eyes Fasten on more of earth and air Than seash.o.r.e furnishes anywhere.

I love the hazel thickets; and the breeze, The never resting prairie winds. The trees That stand like spear points high Against the dark blue sky

Are wonderful to me. I love the gold Of newly shaven stubble, rolled A royal carpet toward the sun, fit to be The pathway of a deity.

I love the life of pasture lands; the songs of birds Are not more thrilling to me than the herd's Mad bellowing or the shadow stride Of mounted herdsmen at my side.

I love my prairies, they are mine From high sun to horizon line.

The mountains and the cold gray sea Are not for me, are not for me.

_Hamlin Garland._

Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead

(_From "The Princess"_)

Home they brought her warrior dead: She nor swoon'd, nor utter'd cry: All her maidens, watching, said, "She must weep or she will die."

Then they praised him, soft and low, Call'd him worthy to be loved, Truest friend and n.o.blest foe; Yet she neither spoke nor moved.

Stole a maiden from her place, Lightly to the warrior stept, Took the face-cloth from the face; Yet she neither moved nor wept.

Rose a nurse of ninety years, Set his child upon her knee-- Like summer tempest came her tears-- "Sweet my child, I live for thee."

_Alfred, Lord Tennyson._

September

Sweet is the voice that calls From babbling waterfalls In meadows where the downy seeds are flying; And soft the breezes blow, And eddying come and go In faded gardens where the rose is dying.

Among the stubbled corn The blithe quail pipes at morn, The merry partridge drums in hidden places, And glittering insects gleam Above the reedy stream, Where busy spiders spin their filmy laces.

At eve, cool shadows fall Across the garden wall, And on the cl.u.s.tered grapes to purple turning; And pearly vapors lie Along the eastern sky, Where the broad harvest-moon is redly burning.

Ah, soon on field and hill The wind shall whistle chill, And patriarch swallows call their flocks together, To fly from frost and snow, And seek for lands where blow The fairer blossoms of a balmier weather.

The cricket chirps all day, "O fairest summer, stay!"

The squirrel eyes askance the chestnuts browning; The wild fowl fly afar Above the foamy bar, And hasten southward ere the skies are frowning.

Now comes a fragrant breeze Through the dark cedar-trees And round about my temples fondly lingers, In gentle playfulness, Like to the soft caress Bestowed in happier days by loving fingers.

Yet, though a sense of grief Comes with the falling leaf, And memory makes the summer doubly pleasant, In all my autumn dreams A future summer gleams, Pa.s.sing the fairest glories of the present!

_George Arnold._

The Old Kitchen Floor

Far back, in my musings, my thoughts have been cast To the cot where the hours of my childhood were pa.s.sed.

I loved all its rooms from the pantry to hall, But the blessed old kitchen was dearer than all.

Its chairs and its tables no brighter could be And all its surroundings were sacred to me, From the nail in the ceiling to the latch on the door, And I loved every crack in that old kitchen floor.

I remember the fireplace with mouth high and wide And the old-fashioned oven that stood by its side Out of which each Thanksgiving came puddings and pies And they fairly bewildered and dazzled our eyes.

And then old St. Nicholas slyly and still Came down every Christmas our stockings to fill.

But the dearest of memories laid up in store Is my mother a-sweeping that old kitchen floor.

To-night those old musings come back at their will But the wheel and its music forever are still.

The band is moth-eaten, the wheel laid away, And the fingers that turned it are mold'ring in clay.

The hearthstone so sacred is just as 'twas then And the voices of children ring out there again.

The sun at the window looks in as of yore, But it sees other feet on that old kitchen floor.

Rustic Courtship

The night was dark when Sam set out To court old Jones's daughter; He kinder felt as if he must, And kinder hadn't oughter.