“ AT the gate of the vineyard give grapes,”
Said a master of wine of words.
Past the bars of the field, strewing salt,
Goes the tamer of flocks and herds ;
At the edge of the forest, a call
Wins the bird his mate from the birds.
In the morning a smile for the day,
Saith the heart in which Love makes strife;
At the noontide a whisper can quell
Every thought with bitterness rife ;
In the night, a swift kiss can bestow
The whole bliss of a mortal life.
Helen Jackson.