Part 34

But you stand without in the dark and cold, And I may not open the long closed door, Nor call thro' the night, with the love of old, -- "Come into the warmth, as in nights of yore!" I kneel alone in the red fire-glow, And hear the wings of the wind sweep by; You are out afar in the night, I know, And the sough of the wind is like a cry.

You are out afar -- and I wait within, A grave-eyed woman whose pulse is slow; The flames round the red coals softly spin, And the lonely room's in a rosy glow. The firelight falls on your vacant chair, And the soft brown rug where you used to stand; Dear, never again shall I see you there, Nor lift my head for your seeking hand.

Yet sometimes still, and in spite of all, I wistful look at the fastened door, And wait again for the swift footfall, And the gay young voice as in hours of yore. It still seems strange to be here alone, With the rising sob of the wind without; The sound takes a deep, insisting tone, Where the trees are swinging their arms about.

Its moaning reaches the sheltered room, And thrills my heart with a sense of pain; I walk to the window, and pierce the gloom, With a yearning look that is all in vain. You are out in a night of depths that hold No promise of dawning for you and me, And only a ghost from the life of old Has come from the world of memory!

You are out evermore! God wills it so! But ah! my spirit is yearning yet! As I kneel alone by the red fire-glow, My eyes grow dim with the old regret. O when shall the aching throb grow still, The warm love-life turn cold at the core! Must I be watching, against my will, For your banished face in the opening door?

It may be, dear, when the sequel's told Of the story, read to its bitter close; When the inner meanings of life unfold, And the under-side of our being shows -- It may be then, in that truer light, When all our knowledge has larger grown, I may understand why you stray to-night, And I am left, with the past, alone.

Agnes L. Storrie.

Twenty Gallons of Sleep

Measure me out from the fathomless tun That somewhere or other you keep In your vasty cellars, O wealthy one, Twenty gallons of sleep.

Twenty gallons of balmy sleep, Dreamless, and deep, and mild, Of the excellent brand you used to keep When I was a little child.

I've tasted of all your vaunted stock, Your clarets and ports of Spain, The liquid gold of your famous hock, And your matchless dry champagne.

Of your rich muscats and your sherries fine, I've drunk both well and deep, Then, measure me out, O merchant mine, Twenty gallons of sleep.

Twenty gallons of slumber soft Of the innocent, baby kind, When the angels flutter their wings aloft And the pillow with down is lined;

I have drawn the corks, and drained the lees Of every vintage pressed, If I've felt the sting of my honey bees I've taken it with the rest.

I have lived my life, and I'll not repine, As I sowed I was bound to reap; Then, measure me out, O merchant mine, Twenty gallons of sleep.

A Confession

You did not know, -- how could you, dear, -- How much you stood for? Life in you Retained its touch of Eden dew, And ever through the droughtiest year My soul could bring her flagon here And fill it to the brim with clear Deep draughts of purity: And time could never quench the flame Of youth that lit me through your eyes, And cozened winter from my skies Through all the years that went and came. You did not know I used your name To conjure by, and still the same I found its potency. You did not know that, as a phial May garner close through dust and gloom The essence of a rich perfume, Romance was garnered in your smile And touched my thoughts with beauty, while The poor world, wise with bitter guile, Outlived its chivalry. You did not know -- our lives were laid So far apart -- that thus I drew The sunshine of my days from you, That by your joy my own was weighed That thus my debts your sweetness paid, And of my heart's deep silence made A lovely melody.

Martha M. Simpson.

To an Old Grammar

Oh, mighty conjuror, you raise The ghost of my lost youth -- The happy, golden-tinted days When earth her treasure-trove displays, And everything is truth.

Your compeers may be sage and dry, But in your page appears A very fairyland, where I Played 'neath a changeful Irish sky -- A sky of smiles and tears.

Dear native land! this little book Brings back the varied charm Of emerald hill and flashing brook, Deep mountain glen and woodland nook, And homely sheltered farm.

I see the hayrick where I sat In golden autumn days, And conned thy page, and wondered what Could be the use, excepting that It gained the master's praise.

I conjugate thy verbs again Beside the winter's fire, And, as the solemn clock strikes ten, I lay thee on the shelf, and then To dreams of thee retire.

Thy Saxon roots reveal to me A silent, empty school, And one poor prisoner who could see, As if to increase her misery, Her mates released from rule,

Rushing to catch the rounder ball, Or circling in the ring. Those merry groups! I see them all, And even now I can recall The songs they used to sing.

Thy syntax conjures forth a morn Of spring, when blossoms rare Conspired the solemn earth to adorn, And spread themselves on bank and thorn, And perfumed all the air.

The dewdrops lent their aid and threw Their gems with lavish hand On every flower of brilliant hue, On every blade of grass that grew In that enchanted land.