“ GIVE me the gold from off thy hair,
The rose upon thy cheek that lies,
Thy singing voice that everywhere
Makes laughter in the trembling air,
The young joy of thine eyes.”
“ What wilt thou give to me, oh, say,
Thou gray old man with restless wings,
For love’s entrancing morn of May,
For dawn and freshness of the day,
And life that leaps and sings ? ”
“ Lo ! I will make thy footstep slow
Across the flowers that bend and wave;
And for thy gold will give thee snow,
And silence for thy laughter low,
Darkness, a grass-grown grave.”
Julie K. Wetherill.