Almost with old-time eagerness I try
My fate, and say: "un peu," a soft "beaucoup,"
Then, lower, "passionement, pas du tout;"
Quick the white petals fall, and lovingly
I pluck the last, and drop with tender touch
The knowing daisy, for he loves me "much."
I can remember how, in childish days,
I deemed that he who held my heart in thrall
Must love me "passionately" or "not at all."
Poor little wilful ignorant heart that prays
It knows not what, and heedlessly demands
The best that life can give with out-stretched hands!
Now I am wiser, and have learned to prize
Peace above passion, and the summer life
Here with the flowers above the ceaseless strife
Of armed ambitions. They alone are wise
Who know the daisy-secrets, and can hold
Fast in their eager hands her heart of gold.
Sea-Song.
A dash of spray,
A weed-browned way,--
My ship's in the bay,
In the glad blue bay,--
The wind's from the west
And the waves have a crest,
But my bird's in the nest
And my ship's in the bay!
At dawn to stand
Soft hand to hand,
Bare feet on the sand,--
On the hard brown sand,--
To wait, dew-crowned,
For the tarrying sound
Of a keel that will ground
On the scraping sand.
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