Helen Grap Cone THE RIDE TO THE LADY "Now since mine even is come at last, For the ride to the lady should be long. Day was dying; the poplars fled, Fast, and fast, and they plunged therein, — But the viewless rider rode to win. Out of the wood to the highway's light Galloped the great-limbed steed in fright; The mail clashed cold, and the sad owl cried, And the weight of the dead oppressed his side. Fast, and fast, by the road he knew; As a garment worn of a wizard grim. She heard no sound before her gate, And made the streams as the streams of Though very quiet was her bower. hell. All his thoughts as a river flowed, Flowed aflame as fleet he rode, Ceased at her feet, mirrored her face. "Face, mine own, mine alone, The Cross flashed by at the highway's turn; In a beam of the moon the Face shone stern. Far behind had the fight's din died; Fast, and fast, and the thick black wood Arched its cowl like a black friar's hood; All was as her hand had left it late: Her fashioning did wait. On the couch lay something fair, On the wings of shrift and prayer, Pure as winds that winnow snow, Her soul had risen twelve hours ago. The burdened steed at the barred gate have seen and heard; "But ye, who have seemed to know us, Her thoughts of him such tender color took As western skies that keep the afterglow. The words he spoke were with her till she died. Who have set us at feasts and have crowned with the costly rose; Who have spread us the purple of praises beneath our feet; Yet guessed not the word that we spake was a living word, Applauding the sound, as worse than foes! we account you We sobbed you our message: ye said, 'It is song, and sweet! THISBE THE garden within was shaded, And guarded about from sight; The fragrance flowed to the south wind, The fountain leaped to the light. And the street without was narrow, And dusty, and hot, and mean; But the bush that bore white roses, She leaned to the fence between: And softly she sought a crevice In that barrier blank and tall, And shyly she thrust out through it Her loveliest bud of all. And tender to touch, and gracious, And pure as the moon's pure shine, The full rose paled and was perfect, For whose eyes, for whose lips, but mine! THE CONTRAST He loved her, having felt his love begin With that first look,- as lover oft avers. He made pale flowers his pleading ministers, Impressed sweet music, drew the springtime in To serve his suit; but when he could not win, Forgot her face and those gray eyes of hers; And at her name his pulse no longer stirs, And life goes on as though she had not been. She never loved him; but she loved Love So, So reverenced Love, that all her being shook At his demand whose entrance she denied. |