Part 19

I cannot forget my jo, I bid him be mine in sleep; But battle and woe have changed him so, There's nothing to do but weep.

My mother rebukes me yet, And I never was meek before; His jacket is wet, his lip cold set, He'll trouble our home no more.

Oh breaker of reeds that bend! Oh quencher of tow that smokes! I'd rather descend to my sailor friend Than prosper with lofty folks.

I'm lying beside the gowan, My jo in the English bay; I'm Annie Rowan, his Annie Rowan, He called me his bien-aimee.

I'll hearken to all you quote, Though I'd rather be deaf and free; The little he wrote in the sinking boat Is Bible and charm for me.

A GARDEN GIRL

Oh, scanty white garment! they ask why I wear you, Such thin chilly vesture for one that is frail, And dull words of prose cannot truly declare you To be what I bid you be, love's coat of mail.

You were but a symbol of cleanness and rest, To don in the summer time, three years ago; And now you encompass a care-stricken breast With fabric of fancy to keep it aglow.

For when it was Lammastide two before this, When freshening my face after freshening my lilies, A door opened quickly, and down fell a kiss, The lips unforeseen were my passionate Willie's.

My Willie was travel-worn, Willie was cold, And I might not keep but a dear lock of hair. I clad him in silk and I decked him with gold, But welcome and fondness were choked in despair.

I follow the wheels, and he turns with a sob, We fold our mute hands on the death of the hour; For heart-breaking virtues and destinies rob The soul of her nursling, the thorn of her flower.

The lad's mind is rooted, his passion red-fruited, The head I caressed is another's delight; And I, though I stray through the year sorrow-suited, At Lammas, for Willie's sake, robe me in white.

TO TWO YOUNG LADIES

There are, I've read, two troops of years, One troop is called the teens; They bring sweet gifts to little dears, Ediths and Geraldines.

The others have no certain name, Though children of the sun, They come to wrinkled men, and claim Their treasures one by one.

There is a hermit faint and dry, In things called rhymes he dabbles, And seventeen months have heard him sigh For Cissy and for Babbles.

Once, when he seemed to be bedridden, These girls said, "Make us lines," He tried to court, as he was bidden, His vanished Valentines.

Now, three days late, yet ere they ask, He's meekly undertaken To do his sentimental task, Philandering, though forsaken.

I pace my paradise, and long To show it off to Peris; They come not, but it can't be wrong To raise their ghosts by queries.

Is Geraldine in flowing robes? Has Edith rippling curls? And do their ears prolong the lobes Weighed down with gold and pearls?

And do they know the verbs of France? And do they play duetts? And do they blush when led to dance? And are they called coquettes?

Oh, Cissy, if the heartless year Sets our brief loves asunder! Oh, Babbles, whom I daren't call dear! What can I do but wonder?

I wonder what you're both become, Whether you're children still; I pause with fingers twain and thumb Closed on my faltering quill;

I pause to think how I decay, And you win grace from Time. Perhaps ill-natured folks would say He's pausing for a rhyme.

The sun, who drew us far apart, Might lessen my regrets, Would he but deign to use his art In painting your vignettes.

Then though I groaned for losing half Of joys that memory traces, I could forego the talk, the laugh, In welcoming the faces.

A HOUSE AND A GIRL

The strawberry tree and the crimson thorn, And Fanny's myrtle and William's vine, And honey of bountiful jessamine, Are gone from the homestead where I was born.