Grandmother, gie me your still white hands that lie upon your breast,
For mine do beat the dark all night and never find me rest;
They grope among the shadows an' they beat the cold black air,
They go seekin' in the darkness, an' they never find him there,
They never find him there.

Grandmither, gie me your sightless eyes, that I may never see
His own a-burnin' full o' love that must not shine for me.
Grandmother, gie me your peaceful lips, white as the kirkyard snow,
For mine be tremblin' wi' the wish that he must never know.
Grandmither, gie me your clay-stopped ears, that I may never hear
My lad a-singin' in the night when I am sick wi' fear;
A-singin' when the moonlight over a' the land is white-
Ah, God! I'll up and go to him, a-singin' in the night,
A-callin' in the night.

Grandmither, gie me your clay-cold heart, that has forgot to ache,
For mine be fire wi'in my breast an' yet it cannot break.
Wi' every beat it's callin' for things that must not be,-
So can ye not let me creep in an' rest awhile by ye?

A little lass afeared o' dark slept by ye years agone—

An' she has found what night can hold 'twixt sunset an' the dawn:
So when I plant the rose an' rue above your grave for ye,

Ye'll know it's under rue an' rose that I would like to be,
That I would like to be.

Willa Sibert Cather

FROST IN SPRING

Oh, had it been in Autumn, when all is spent and sere,
That the first numb chill crept on us, with its ghostly hint of fear,
I had borne to see love go, with things detached and frail,
Swept outward with the blowing leaf on the unresting gale.

But when day is a magic thing, when Time begins anew,
When every clod is parted by Beauty breaking through,—
How can it be that you and I bring Love no offering,
How can it be that frost should fall upon us in the Spring!
Jessie B. Rittenhouse

Before me you bowed as before an altar,
And I reached down and drew you to my bosom;
Proud of your reverence, and reverence returning,
But craving most your pleasure, not your awe.

Zoë Akins

My hands about your head curved themselves, as holding
A treasure, fragile and of glad possession!

Dear were the bones of your skull beneath my fingers,
And I grew brave imagining your defence.

Not as a man I felt you in my brooding,
But merely a babe,- -a babe of my own body:
Precious your worth, but dearer your dependence:
Sometimes I wished to feed you at my breast.

Not to myself, I knew, belonged your homage:
I but the vessel of your holy drinking,
The channel to you of that olden wonder
Of love and womanhood,-I, but a woman.

Then never need your memory be shamefaced
That I have seen your flesh and soul at worship:
Do you think I did not kneel when you were kneeling?
Even lowlier bowed my head, and bowed my heart.
Helen Hoyt

A LYNMOUTH WIDOW*

He was straight and strong, and his eyes were blue
As the summer meeting of sky and sea,

And the ruddy cliffs had a colder hue

Than flushed his cheek when he married me.

We passed the porch where the swallows breed,
We left the little brown church behind,

And I leaned on his arm, though I had no need,
Only to feel him so strong and kind.

One thing I never can quite forget;
It grips my throat when I try to pray-
The keen salt smell of a drying net

That hung on the churchyard wall that day.

He would have taken a long, long grave—
A long, long grave, for he stood so tall
Oh, God! the crash of a breaking wave,

And the smell of the nets on the churchyard wall!

Amelia Josephine Burr

From In Deep Places by Amelia Josephine Burr. Copyright, 1914, George H. Doran Company, Publishers.

LOVE IS A TERRIBLE THING

I went out to the farthest meadow,

I lay down in the deepest shadow;

And I said unto the earth, "Hold me,"
And unto the night, "O enfold me,"

And unto the wind petulantly

I cried, "You know not for you are free!"

And I begged the little leaves to lean
Low and together for a safe screen;

Then to the stars I told my tale:
"That is my home-light, there in the vale,

"And O, I know that I shall return,
But let me lie first mid the unfeeling fern.

"For there is a flame that has blown too near, And there is a name that has grown too dear, And there is a fear

And to the still hills and cool earth and far sky I made moan, "The heart in my bosom is not my own!

"O would I were free as the wind on the wing;

Love is a terrible thing!"

Grace Fallow Norton

LOVE SONG

I love my life, but not too well
To give it to thee like a flower,
So it may pleasure thee to dwell
Deep in its perfume but an hour.
I love my life, but not too well.

I love my life, but not too well

To sing it note by note away, So to thy soul the song may tell

The beauty of the desolate day. I love my life, but not too well.

I love my life but not too well

To cast it like a cloak on thine, Against the storms that sound and swell Between thy lonely heart and mine.

I love my life, but not too well.

Harriet Monroe

LOVE CAME BACK AT FALL O' DEW

Love came back at fall o' dew,

Playing his old part;

But I had a word or two

That would break his heart.

"He who comes at candlelight,

That should come before,

Must betake him to the night

From a barrèd door."

This the word that made us part

In the fall o' dew;

This the word that brake his heart

Yet it brake mine, too.

Lizette Woodworth Reese

PEACE

Peace flows into me

As the tide to the pool by the shore;

It is mine forevermore,

It will not ebb like the sea.