THREE POEMS WHEN I AM OLD I still shall love the spring when I am old. Through grey-green days, upon my window-pane, When sticky buds, bursting with leafy wonder, Worn tilted up or tilted under Those twisty April branches, bare of shade. Though every April night is a green frame And without envy I shall say, Nodding my head, "It used to be the same In my own day!" Seiffert, Marjorie atte UTO A CHILD 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, A captured dream-these souls breathe with your breath, TO A POET 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 Seiffert THE SILVER MUSIC In Chepstow stands a castle My love and I went there. The foxgloves on the wall all heard Her footsteps on the stair. The sun was high in heaven, Oh I'm weary for the castle, And another soldier fellow Shall come courting of my dear; In the perfume of the air Of her footstep on the stair. Hueffer, Find Mader THE SANCTUARY Shadowed by your dear hair, your dear kind eyes So clear and black and still-to one great star. If ever life was harsh Here we forget-or ever friends turned foes. The sea cliffs beetle down above the marsh Your kind, dear eyes shine in your dear, dear face. Ford Madox Hueffer IS IT WORTH WHILE 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 Is it worth while to give up a house Because of such slight aura As these? 4 Violet Hunt |