Life and Death.

IF I had chosen, my tears had all been dews;
I would have drawn a bird’s or blossom’s breath,
Nor outmoaned yonder dove. I did not choose, —
And here is Life for me, and there is Death.
Ay, here is Life. Bloom for me, violet;
Whisper me, Love, all things that are not true;
Sing, nightingale and lark, till I forget, —
For here is Life, and I have need of you.
So, there is Death. Fade, violet, from the land;
Cease from your singing, nightingale and lark;
Forsake me, Love, for I without your hand
Can find my way more surely to the dark.


Engaged Too Long.

WHY do I grieve with summer here?
I want the flower that died last year;
I want the old drops of the dew,
And my old love, sir, — and not you.
Younger than you, nor quite so wise,
Was he who had your hair and eyes, —
Who said, “ I love you ” first, you see;
This you repeat, and weary me.


Turned Away.

IT may have been. Who knows? Who knows?
It was too dark for me to see.
The wind that spared this very rose
Its few last leaves could hardly be
Sadder of voice than he.
A foreign prince here in disguise
Who asked a shelter from the rain
(The country that he came from lies
Above the clouds): he asked in vain,
And will not come again.
If I had known that it was He
Who had not where to lay his head;
“ But my Lord Christ, it cannot be, —
My guest-room has too white a bed
For wayside dust,” I had said.
Sallie M. B. Piatt.