Where the thistle lifts a purple crown Six foot out of the turf, And the harebell shakes on the windy hill-- O the breath of the distant surf!--

The hills look over on the South, And southward dreams the sea; And with the sea-breeze hand in hand Came innocence and she.

Where 'mid the gorse the raspberry Red for the gatherer springs, Two children did we stray and talk Wise, idle, childish things.

She listened with big-lipped surprise, Breast-deep 'mid flower and spine: Her skin was like a grape, whose veins Run snow instead of wine.

She knew not those sweet words she spake, Nor knew her own sweet way; But there's never a bird, so sweet a song Thronged in whose throat that day!

Oh, there were flowers in Storrington On the turf and on the spray; But the sweetest flower on Suss.e.x hills Was the Daisy-flower that day!

Her beauty smoothed earth's furrowed face!

She gave me tokens three:-- A look, a word of her winsome mouth, And a wild raspberry.

A berry red, a guileless look, A still word,--strings of sand!

And yet they made my wild, wild heart Fly down to her little hand.

For standing artless as the air, And candid as the skies, She took the berries with her hand, And the love with her sweet eyes.

The fairest things have fleetest end: Their scent survives their close, But the rose's scent is bitterness To him that loved the rose!

She looked a little wistfully, Then went her sunshine way:-- The sea's eye had a mist on it, And the leaves fell from the day.

She went her unremembering way, She went and left in me The pang of all the partings gone, And partings yet to be.

She left me marveling why my soul Was sad that she was glad; At all the sadness in the sweet, The sweetness in the sad.

Still, still I seemed to see her, still Look up with soft replies, And take the berries with her hand, And the love with her lovely eyes.

Nothing begins, and nothing ends, That is not paid with moan; For we are born in others' pain, And perish in our own.

Francis Thompson [1859?-1907]

TO PETRONILLA WHO HAS PUT UP HER HAIR

Yesterday it blew alway, Yesterday is dead, Now forever must it stay Coiled about your head, Tell me Whence the great Command Hitherward has sped.

"Silly boy, as if I knew,"

Petronilla said.

Nay, but I am very sure, Since you left my side, Something has befallen you, You are fain to hide, Homage has been done to you, Innocents have died.

"Silly boy, and what of that?"

Petronilla cried.

Petronilla, much I fear Scarcely have you wept All those merry yesterdays, Slaughtered whilst you slept, Slain to bind that pretty crown Closer round your head.

"Silly boy, as if I cared,"

Petronilla said.

Henry Howarth Bashford [1880-

THE GYPSY GIRL

Pa.s.sing I saw her as she stood beside A lonely stream between two barren wolds; Her loose vest hung in rudely gathered folds On her swart bosom, which in maiden pride Pillowed a string of pearls; among her hair Twined the light bluebell and the stone-crop gay; And not far thence the small encampment lay, Curling its wreathed smoke into the air.

She seemed a child of some sun-favored clime; So still, so habited to warmth and rest; And in my wayward musings on past time, When my thought fills with treasured memories, That image nearest borders on the blest Creations of pure art that never dies.

Henry Alford [1810-1871]

f.a.n.n.y A Southern Blossom

Come and see her as she stands, Crimson roses in her hands; And her eyes Are as dark as Southern night, Yet than Southern dawn more bright, And a soft, alluring light In them lies.

None deny if she beseech With that pretty, liquid speech Of the South.

All her consonants are slurred, And the vowels are preferred; There's a poem in each word From that mouth.

Even Cupid is her slave; Of her arrows, half he gave Her one day In a merry, playful hour.

Dowered with these and beauty's dower, Strong indeed her magic power, So they say.

Venus, not to be outdone By her generous little son, Shaped the mouth Very like to Cupid's bow.

Lack-a-day! Our North can show No such lovely flowers as grow In the South!

Anne Reeve Aldrich [1866-1892]

SOMEBODY'S CHILD

Just a picture of Somebody's child,-- Sweet face set in golden hair, Violet eyes, and cheeks of rose, Rounded chin, with a dimple there,

Tender eyes where the shadows sleep, Lit from within by a secret ray,-- Tender eyes that will shine like stars When love and womanhood come this way:

Scarlet lips with a story to tell,-- Blessed be he who shall find it out, Who shall learn the eyes' deep secret well, And read the heart with never a doubt.

Then you will tremble, scarlet lips, Then you will crimson, loveliest cheeks: Eyes will brighten and blushes will burn When the one true lover bends and speaks.

But she's only a child now, as you see, Only a child in her careless grace: When Love and Womanhood come this way Will anything sadden the flower-like face?

Louise Chandler Moulton [1835-1908]