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I still shall love the spring when I am old.
The whisper of April rain
Through grey-green days, upon my window-pane,
Shall speak as now of mornings bright and fine—
The days of gold,
When sticky buds, bursting with leafy wonder,
Turn every one into a gay cockade,
Worn tilted up or tilted under
Those twisty April branches, bare of shade.

Though every April night is a green frame
For lovers, they but fit the old design
Earth never has outworn;
And without envy I shall say,
Nodding my head, “It used to be the same

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Beauty, the dream that I have dreamed so much
Comes true in your quick smile,
And on your cheek I see her touch
And sometimes in your eyes awhile
Immortal Beauty's fleeting image lies.

Dear child, in whose veins beat
The marching centuries of lovers' feet,
All those brave, ardent ghosts in you arise—
The souls who, loving Beauty, gave you birth
With a chain of passion binding Beauty to earth,
A captured dream—these souls breathe with your breath,
Living again in Beauty that knows no death.
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Strangely you say
The uttermost life has for you
In your own day
Blossoms and dies—there can ensue
No further power,
Longing, achievement, or unrest,
Beyond the hour
Earth takes your body to her breast.

So you devise

A diamond immortality,

And crystallize
Your soul in metric jewellery.
Well, let it shine,
Quaint relic of a past which lingers.
Children of mine
May touch it with warm, living fingers!

Marjorie Allen saial

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Shadowed by your dear hair, your dear kind eyes
Look on wine-purple seas, whitened afar
With marble foam, where the dim islands are.
We sit forgetting. For the great pines rise
Above dark cypress to the dim white skies
So clear and black and still—to one great star.
The marble dryads and the veined white jar
Gleam from the grove. Glimmering, the white owl flies
In the dark shade. . . .

If ever life was harsh
Here we forget—or ever friends turned foes.
The sea cliffs beetle down above the marsh
And through sea-holly the black panther goes.
And in the shadows of this secret place
Your kind, dear eyes shine in your dear, dear face. s

Ford Madox Hueffer \


Dear, were you ever here?

It has all grown so faint—

Just reminders,

Like the squeak of a bat, the chirp of a starling on the rim of the chimney outside,

As I lie in bed of a morning;

The cry of a new-born kitten,

Or the crawling of a beetle on a slate,

As I sit out in the warm summer evenings.

Yet there are traces

Less intangible. . . .
There is the dear little amateur letter-box
You put in yourself for me,
The knots you made for me in the hammock cords,
The marks of your burnt cigarette-ends
That blemish the corners of tables and shelves.

Well, well! . . .”

One throws away garments, one destroys photographs .

That remind one. . . .

Is it worth while to give up a house

Because of such slight aura

As these? |

Violet Hunt

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