The Secret
IF I should tell you what I know
Of where the first primroses grow,
Betray the secrets of the lily,
Bring crocus-gold and daffodilly,
Would you tell me if charm there be
To win a maiden, willy-nilly?
I lie upon the fragrant heath,
Kin to the beating heart beneath;
The nesting plover I discover
Nor stir the scented screen above her,
Yet am I blind--I cannot find
What turns a maiden to her lover!
Through all the mysteries of May,
Initiate, I take my way--
Sure as the blithest lark or linnet
To touch the pulsing soul within it--
Yet with no art to reach Her heart,
Nor skill to teach me how to win it!
Laureate
DEATH met a little child who cried
For a bright star which earth denied,
And Death, so sympathetic, kissed it,
Saying: 'With me
All bright things be!'--
And only the child's mother missed it.
Death met a maiden on the brae,
Her eyes held dreams life would betray,
And gallant Death was greatly taken--
'Leave,' whispered he,
'Your dream with me
And I will see you never waken.'
Death met an old man in a lane;
So gnarled was he and full of pain
That kindly Death was struck with pity--
'Come you with me,
Old man,' said he,
'I'll set you down in a fair city.'
So, kingly Death along the way
Scatters rare gifts and asks no pay--
Yet who to Death will write a sonnet?
If any dare,
Let him take care
No foolish tear be spilled upon it!
