They say He was a serious child,
  And quiet in His ways;
They say the gentlest lady smiled
  To hear the neighbors' praise.

The coffers of her heart would close
  Upon their smaliest word.
Yet did they say, "How tall He grows!"
  They thought she had not heard.

They say upon His birthday eve
  She'd rock Him to His rest
As if she could not have Him leave
  The shelter of her breast.

The poor must go in bitter thrift,
  The poor must give in pain,
But ever did she get a gift
  To greet His day again.

They say she'd kiss the Boy awake,
  And hail Him gay and clear,
But oh, her heart was like to break
  To count another year.

There still are kindly things for me to know,
Who am afraid to dream, afraid to feel-
This little chair of scrubbed and sturdy deal,
This easy book, this fire, sedate and slow.
And I shall stay with them, nor cry the woe
Of wounds across my breast that do not heal;
Nor wish that Beauty drew a duller steel,
Since I am sworn to meet her as a foe.

It may be, when the devil's own time is done,
That I shall hear the dropping of the rain
At midnight, and lie quiet in my bed;
Or stretch and straighten to the yellow sun;
Or face the turning tree, and have no pain;
So shall I learn at last my heart is dead.

If you should sail for Trebizond, or die,
Or cry another name in your first sleep,
Or see me board a train, and fail to sigh,
Appropriately, I'd clutch my breast and weep.
And you, if I should wander through the door,
Or sin, or seek a nunnery, or save
My lips and give my cheek, would tread the floor
And aptly mention poison and the grave.

Therefore the mooning world is gratified,
Quoting how prettily we sigh and swear;
And you and I, correctly side by side,
Shall live as lovers when our bones are bare
And though we lie forever enemies,
Shall rank with Abelard and Heloise.

Lady, lady, never start
Conversation toward your heart;
Keep your pretty words serene;
Never murmur what you mean.
Show yourself, by word and look,
Swift and shallow as a brook.
Be as cool and quick to go
As a drop of April snow;
Be as delicate and gay
As a cherry flower in May.
Lady, lady, never speak
Of the tears that burn your cheek--
She will never win him, whose
Words had shown she feared to lose.
Be you wise and never sad,
You will get your lovely lad.
Never serious be, nor true,
And your wish will come to you--
And if that makes you happy, kid,
You'll be the first it ever did.

New love, new love, where are you to lead me?
  All along a narrow way that marks a crooked line.
How are you to slake me, and how are you to feed me?
  With bitter yellow berries, and a sharp new wine.

New love, new love, shall I be forsaken?
  One shall go a-wandering, and one of us must sigh.
Sweet it is to slumber, but how shall we awaken--
  Whose will be the broken heart, when dawn comes by?

The friends I made have slipped and strayed,
   And who's the one that cares?
A trifling lot and best forgot--
   And that's my tale, and theirs.

Then if my friendships break and bend,
   There's little need to cry
The while I know that every foe
   Is faithful till I die.

I was seventy-seven, come August,
  I shall shortly be losing my bloom;
I've experienced zephyr and raw gust
  And (symbolical) flood and simoom.

When you come to this time of abatement,
  To this passing from Summer to Fall,
It is manners to issue a statement
  As to what you got out of it all.

So I'll say, though reflection unnerves me
  And pronouncements I dodge as I can,
That I think (if my memory serves me)
  There was nothing more fun than a man!

In my youth, when the crescent was too wan
  To embarrass with beams from above,
By the aid of some local Don Juan
  I fell into the habit of love.

And I learned how to kiss and be merry--an
  Education left better unsung.
My neglect of the waters Pierian
  Was a scandal, when Grandma was young.

Though the shabby unbalanced the splendid,
  And the bitter outmeasured the sweet,
I should certainly do as I then did,
  Were I given the chance to repeat.

For contrition is hollow and wraithful,
  And regret is no part of my plan,
And I think (if my memory's faithful)
  There was nothing more fun than a man!

"It's queer," she said; "I see the light
  As plain as I beheld it then,
All silver-like and calm and bright--
  We've not had stars like that again!

"And she was such a gentle thing
  To birth a baby in the cold.
The barn was dark and frightening--
  This new one's better than the old.

"I mind my eyes were full of tears,
  For I was young, and quick distressed,
But she was less than me in years
  That held a son against her breast.

"I never saw a sweeter child--
  The little one, the darling one!--
I mind I told her, when he smiled
  You'd know he was his mother's son.

"It's queer that I should see them so--
  The time they came to Bethlehem
Was more than thirty years ago;
  I've prayed that all is well with them."

If it shine or if it rain,
   Little will I care or know.
Days, like drops upon a pane,
   Slip, and join, and go.

At my door's another lad;
   Here's his flower in my hair.
If he see me pale and sad,
   Will he see me fair?

I sit looking at the floor.
   Little will I think or say
If he seek another door;
   Even if he stay.

Into love and out again,
        Thus I went and thus I go.
Spare your voice, and hold your pen:
        Well and bitterly I know
All the songs were ever sung,
        All the words were ever said;
Could it be, when I was young,
        Someone dropped me on my head?

I always saw, I always said
  If I were grown and free,
I'd have a gown of reddest red
  As fine as you could see,

To wear out walking, sleek and slow,
  Upon a Summer day,
And there'd be one to see me so
  And flip the world away.

And he would be a gallant one,
  With stars behind his eyes,
And hair like metal in the sun,
  And lips too warm for lies.

I always saw us, gay and good,
  High honored in the town.
Now I am grown to womanhood....
  I have the silly gown.

There was one a-riding grand
  On a tall brown mare,
And a fine gold band
  He brought me there.

A little, gold band
  He held to me
That would shine on a hand
  For the world to see.

There was one a-walking swift
  To a little, new song,
And a rose was the gift
  He carried along,

First of all the posies,
  Dewy and red.
They that have roses
  Never need bread.

There was one with a swagger
  And a soft, slow tongue,
And a bright, cold dagger
  Where his left hand swung--

Craven and gilt,
  Old and bad--
And his stroking of the hilt
  Set a girl mad.

There was one a-riding grand
  As he rode from me.
And he raised his golden band
  And he threw it in the sea.

There was one a-walking slow
  To a sad, Iong sigh.
And his rose drooped low,
  And he flung it down to die.

There was one with a swagger
  And a little, sharp pride,
And a bright, cold dagger
  Ever at his side.

At his side it stayed
  When he ran to part.
What is this blade
  Struck through my heart?

Needle, needle, dip and dart,
Thrusting up and down,
Where's the man could ease a heart
Like a satin gown?

See the stitches curve and crawl
Round the cunning seams--
Patterns thin and sweet and small
As a lady's dreams.

Wantons go in bright brocade;
Brides in organdie;
Gingham's for the plighted maid;
Satin's for the free!

Wool's to line a miser's chest;
Crepe's to calm the old;
Velvet hides an empty breast
Satin's for the bold!

Lawn is for a bishop's yoke;
Linen's for a nun;
Satin is for wiser folk--
Would the dress were done!

Satin glows in candlelight--
Satin's for the proud!
They will say who watch at night,
"What a fine shroud!"

Who lay against the sea, and fled,
  Who lightly loved the wave,
Shall never know, when he is dead,
  A cool and murmurous grave.

But in a shallow pit shall rest
   For all eternity,
And bear the earth upon the breas
   That once had worn the sea.

When I consider, pro and con,
What things my love is built upon--
A curly mouth; a sinewed wrist;
A questioning brow; a pretty twist
Of words as old and tried as sin;
A pointed ear; a cloven chin;
Long, tapered limbs; and slanted eyes
Not cold nor kind nor darkly wise--
When so I ponder, here apart,
What shallow boons suffice my heart,
What dust-bound trivia capture me,
I marvel at my normalcy.

Go I must along my ways
  Though my heart be ragged,
Dripping bitter through the days,
  Festering, and jagged.
Smile I must at every twinge,
  Kiss, to time its throbbing;
He that tears a heart to fringe
  Hates the noise of sobbing.

Weep, my love, till Heaven hears;
  Curse and moan and languish.
While I wash your wound with tears,
  Ease aloud your anguish.
Bellow of the pit in Hell
  Where you're made to linger.
There and there and well and well--
  Did he ***** his finger!

No more my little song comes back;
  And now of nights I lay
My head on down, to watch the black
  And wait the unfailing gray.

Oh, sad are winter nights, and slow;
  And sad's a song that's dumb;
And sad it is to lie and know
  Another dawn will come.

With you, my heart is quiet here,
And all my thoughts are cool as rain.
I sit and let the shifting year
Go by before the windowpane,
And reach my hand to yours, my dear . . .
I wonder what it's like in Spain.

Death's the lover that I'd be taking;
Wild and fickle and fierce is he.
Small's his care if my heart be breaking--
Gay young Death would have none of me.

Hear them clack of my haste to greet him!
No one other my mouth had kissed.
I had dressed me in silk to meet him--
False young Death would not hold the tryst.

Slow's the blood that was quick and stormy,
Smooth and cold is the bridal bed;
I must wait till he whistles for me--
Proud young Death would not turn his head.

I must wait till my breast is wilted.
I must wait till my back is bowed,
I must rock in the corner, jilted--
Death went galloping down the road.

Gone's my heart with a trifling rover.
Fine he was in the game he played--
Kissed, and promised, and threw me over,
And rode away with a prettier maid.

Oh, I'd been better dying,
  Oh, I was slow and sad;
A fool I was, a-crying
  About a cruel lad!

But there was one that found me,
  That wept to see me weep,
And had his arm around me,
  And gave me words to keep.

And I'd be better dying,
  And I am slow and sad;
A fool I am, a-crying
  About a tender lad!

When I was young and bold and strong,
Oh, right was right, and wrong was wrong!
My plume on high, my flag unfurled,
I rode away to right the world.
"Come out, you dogs, and fight!" said I,
And wept there was but once to die.

But I am old; and good and bad
Are woven in a crazy plaid.
I sit and say, "The world is so;
And he is wise who lets it go.
A battle lost, a battle won--
The difference is small, my son."

Inertia rides and riddles me;
The which is called Philosophy.

Back of my back, they talk of me,
  Gabble and honk and hiss;
Let them batten, and let them be--
  Me, I can sing them this:

"Better to shiver beneath the stars,
  Head on a faithless breast,
Than peer at the night through rusted bars,
  And share an irksome rest.

"Better to see the dawn come up,
  Along of a trifling one,
Than set a steady man's cloth and cup
  And pray the day be done.

"Better be left by twenty dears
  Than lie in a loveless bed;
Better a loaf that's wet with tears
  Than cold, unsalted bread."

Back of my back, they wag their chins,
  Whinny and bleat and sigh;
But better a heart a-bloom with sins
  Than hearts gone yellow and dry!

I cannot rest, I cannot rest
  In straight and shiny wood,
My woven hands upon my breast--
  The dead are all so good!

The earth is cool across their eyes;
  They lie there quietly.
But I am neither old nor wise;
  They do not welcome me.

Where never I walked alone before,
  I wander in the weeds;
And people scream and bar the door,
  And rattle at their beads.

We cannot rest, we never rest
  Within a narrow bed
Who still must love the living best--
  Who hate the pompous dead!

On sweet young earth where the myrtle presses,
  Long we lay, when the May was new;
The willow was winding the moon in her tresses,
  The bud of the rose was told with dew.

And now on the brittle ground I'm lying,
  Screaming to die with the dead year's dead;
The stem of the rose is black and drying,
  The willow is tossing the wind from her head.

And if, my friend, you'd have it end,
  There's naught to hear or tell.
But need you try to black my eye
  In wishing me farewell.

Though I admit an edged wit
  In woe is warranted,
May I be frank? . . . Such words as "--"
  Are better left unsaid.

There's rosemary for you and me;
  But is it usual, dear,
To hire a man, and fill a van
  By way of souvenir?

Carlyle combined the lit'ry life
With throwing teacups at his wife,
Remarking, rather testily,
"Oh, stop your dodging, Mrs. C.!"

It costs me never a stab nor squirm
To tread by chance upon a worm.
"Aha, my little dear," I say,
"Your clan will pay me back one day."

Lilacs blossom just as sweet
Now my heart is shattered.
If I bowled it down the street,
Who's to say it mattered?
If there's one that rode away
What would I be missing?
Lips that taste of tears, they say,
Are the best for kissing.

Eyes that watch the morning star
Seem a little brighter;
Arms held out to darkness are
Usually whiter.
Shall I bar the strolling guest,
Bind my brow with willow,
When, they say, the empty breast
Is the softer pillow?

That a heart falls tinkling down,
Never think it ceases.
Every likely lad in town
Gathers up the pieces.
If there's one gone whistling by
Would I let it grieve me?
Let him wonder if I lie;
Let him half believe me.

He will love you presently
If you be the way you be.
Send your heart a-skittering.
He will stoop, and lift the thing.
Be your dreams as thread, to tease
Into patterns he shall please.
Let him see your passion is
Ever tenderer than his....
Go and bless your star above,
Thus are you, and thus is Love.

He will leave you white with woe,
If you go the way you go.
If your dreams were thread to weave
He will pluck them from his sleeve.
If your heart had come to rest,
He will flick it from his breast.
Tender though the love he bore,
You had loved a little more....
Lady, go and curse your star,
Thus Love is, and thus you are.

I. The Minor Poet

His little trills and chirpings were his best.
  No music like the nightingale's was born
Within his throat;  but he, too, laid his breast
  Upon a thorn.

          II. The Pretty Lady

She hated bleak and wintry things alone.
  All that was warm and quick, she loved too well-
A light, a flame, a heart against her own;
  It is forever bitter cold, in Hell.

          III. The Very Rich Man

He'd have the best, and that was none too good;
  No barrier could hold, before his terms.
He lies below, correct in cypress wood,
  And entertains the most exclusive worms.

          IV. The Fisherwoman

The man she had was kind and clean
  And well enough for every day,
But, oh, dear friends, you should have seen
  The one that got away!

           V. The Crusader

Arrived in Heaven, when his sands were run,
  He seized a quill, and sat him down to tell
The local press that something should be done
  About that noisy nuisance, Gabriel.

          Vl. The Actress

Her name, cut clear upon this marble cross,
  Shines, as it shone when she was still on earth;
While tenderly the mild, agreeable moss
  Obscures the figures of her date of birth.

I met a man the other day--
  A kindly man, and serious--
Who viewed me in a thoughtful way,
  And spoke me so, and spoke me thus:

"Oh, dallying's a sad mistake;
  'Tis craven to survey the morrow!
Go give your heart, and if it break--
  A wise companion is Sorrow.

"Oh, live, my child, nor keep your soul
  To crowd your coffin when you're dead...."
I asked his work; he dealt in coal,
  And shipped it up the Tyne, he said.

Too long and quickly have I lived to vow
  The woe that stretches me shall never wane,
  Too often seen the end of endless pain
To swear that peace no more shall cool my brow.
I know, I know--again the shriveled bough
  Will burgeon sweetly in the gentle rain,
  And these hard lands be quivering with grain--
I tell you only: it is Winter now.

What if I know, before the Summer goes
Where dwelt this bitter frenzy shall be rest?
What is it now, that June shall surely bring
New promise, with the swallow and the rose?
My heart is water, that I first must breast
The terrible, slow loveliness of Spring.

The sun's gone dim, and
  The moon's turned black;
For I loved him, and
  He didn't love back.

I'm wearied of wearying love, my friend,
  Of worry and strain and doubt;
Before we begin, let us view the end,
  And maybe I'll do without.
There's never the pang that was worth the tear,
  And toss in the night I won't--
So either you do or you don't, my dear,
  Either you do or you don't!

The table is ready, so lay your cards
  And if they should augur pain,
I'll tender you ever my kind regards
  And run for the fastest train.
I haven't the will to be spent and sad;
  My heart's to be gay and true--
Then either you don't or you do, my lad,
  Either you don't or you do!

By the time you swear you're his,
  Shivering and sighing,
And he vows his passion is
  Infinite, undying -
Lady, make a note of this:
  One of you is lying.

I wish I could drink like a lady
I can take one or two at the most
Three and I'm under the table
Four and I'm under the host

For one, the amaryllis and the rose;
  The poppy, sweet as never lilies are;
The ripen'd vine, that beckons as it blows;
  The dancing star.

For one, the trodden rosemary and rue;
  The bowl, dipt ever in the purple stream
And, for the other one, a fairer due--
  Sleep, and no dream.

Such glorious faith as fills your limpid eyes,
Dear little friend of mine, I never knew.
All-innocent are you, and yet all-wise.
(For Heaven's sake, stop worrying that shoe!)
You look about, and all you see is fair;
This mighty globe was made for you alone.
Of all the thunderous ages, you're the heir.
(Get off the pillow with that ***** bone!)

A skeptic world you face with steady gaze;
High in young pride you hold your noble head,
Gayly you meet the rush of roaring days.
(Must you eat puppy biscuit on the bed?)
Lancelike your courage, gleaming swift and strong,
Yours the white rapture of a winged soul,
Yours is a spirit like a Mayday song.
(God help you, if you break the goldfish bowl!)

"Whatever is, is good"--your gracious creed.
You wear your joy of living like a crown.
Love lights your simplest act, your every deed.
(Drop it, I tell you--put that kitten down!)
You are God's kindliest gift of all--a friend.
Your shining loyalty unflecked by doubt,
You ask but leave to follow to the end.
(Couldn't you wait until I took you out?)

Dear dead Victoria
  Rotted cosily;
In excelsis gloria,
  And R. I. P.

And her shroud was buttoned neat,
  And her bones were clean and round,
And her soul was at her feet
  Like a bishop's marble hound.

Albert lay a-drying,
  Lavishly arrayed,
With his soul out flying
  Where his heart had stayed.

And there's some could tell you what land
  His spirit walks serene
(But I've heard them say in Scotland
  It's never been seen).

Love has gone a-rocketing.
That is not the worst;
I could do without the thing,
And not be the first.

Joy has gone the way it came.
That is nothing new;
I could get along the same, --
Many people do.

Now I am bereft.
All my pretty hates are dead,
And what have I left?

Upon the work of Walter Landor
I am unfit to write with candor.
If you can read it, well and good;
But as for me, I never could.

This I say, and this I know:
  Love has seen the last of me.
Love's a trodden lane to woe,
  Love's a path to misery.

This I know, and knew before,
  This I tell you, of my years:
Hide your heart, and lock your door.
  Hell's afloat in lovers' tears.

Give your heart, and toss and moan;
  What a pretty fool you look!
I am sage, who sit alone;
  Here's my wool, and here's my book.

Look! A lad's a-waiting there,
  Tall he is and bold, and gay.
What the devil do I care
  What I know, and what I say?

Helen of Troy had a wandering glance;
Sappho's restriction was only the sky;
Ninon was ever the chatter of France;
But oh, what a good girl am I!