Part 159

"Daughter, thou art come to die: Sound be thy sleeping, lass." "Well: without lament or cry, Mother, let me pass."

"What things on mould were best of all? (Soft be thy sleeping, lass.)" "The apples reddening till they fall In the sun beside the convent wall. Let me pass."

"Whom on earth hast thou loved best? (Sound be thy sleeping, lass.)" "Him that shared with me thy breast; Thee and a knight last year our guest. He hath an heron to his crest. Let me pass."

"What leavest thou of fame or hoard? (Soft be thy sleeping, lass.)" "My far-blown shame for thy reward; To my brother, gold to get him a sword. Let me pass."

"But what wilt leave thy lover, Grim? (Sound be thy sleeping, lass.)" "The hair he kissed to strangle him. Mother, let me pass."

William Laird [1888-

"SHE WAS YOUNG AND BLITHE AND FAIR"

She was young and blithe and fair, Firm of purpose, sweet and strong; Perfect was her crown of hair, Perfect most of all her song.

Yesterday beneath an oak, She was chanting in the wood: Wandering harmonies awoke; Sleeping echoes understood.

To-day without a song, without a word, She seems to drag one piteous fallen wing Along the ground, and, like a wounded bird, Move silent, having lost the heart to sing.

She was young and blithe and fair, Firm of purpose, sweet and strong; Perfect was her crown of hair, Perfect most of all her song.

Harold Monro [1879-1932]

THE LASS THAT DIED OF LOVE

Life is not dear or gay Till lovers kiss it, Love stole my life away Ere I might miss it. In sober March I vowed I'd have no lover, Love laid me in my shroud Ere June was over.

I felt his body take My body to it, And knew my heart would break Ere I should rue it; June roses are not sad When dew-drops steep them, My moments were so glad I could not keep them.

Proud was I love had made Desire to fill me, I shut my eyes and prayed That he might kill me. I saw new wonders wreathe The stars above him. And oh, I could not breathe For kissing of him.

Is love too sweet to last, Too fierce to cherish, Can kisses fall too fast And lovers perish? Who heeds since love disarms Death, ere we near him? Within my lover's arms I did not fear him!

But since I died in sin And all unshriven, They would not let me win Into their heaven; They would not let my bier Into God's garden, But bade me tarry here And pray for pardon.

I lie and wait for grace That shall surround me, His kisses on my face, His arms around me; And sinless maids draw near To drop above me A virginal sad tear For envy of me.

Richard Middleton [1882-1911]

THE PASSION-FLOWER

My love gave me a passion-flower. I nursed it well - so brief its hour! My eyelids ache, my throat is dry: He told me that it would not die.

My love and I are one, and yet Full oft my cheeks with tears are wet - So sweet the night is and the bower! My love gave me a passion-flower.

So sweet! Hold fast my hands. Can God Make all this joy revert to sod, And leave to me but this for dower - My love gave me a passion-flower.

Margaret Fuller [1871-

NORAH

I knew his house by the poplar-trees, Green and silvery in the breeze;

"A heaven-high hedge," were the words he said, "And holly-hocks, pink and white and red. . . ."