A TASTE Francesco Petrarch had
For dialects, and leeks, and verses,
Though Laura was his best-known fad
But Laura loved her Husband (Curses!)

Through twenty long and tragic years
That burned Francesco's soul like acid —
(He melted several Alps with tears) —
Laura remained at home ... quite placid.

She loved her Husband, Laura did:
Please fix that vital fact securely.
When Petrarch called her " Heavenly kid! "

Why dost thou say thou lov'st me now,
And yet proclam'st it is too late,
When bound by folly, or by Fate,
Thou can'st no further grace allow?

Repeat no more that killing Voice,
Thou beauteous Victrice of my heart;
Or find a way to ease my smart,
Maugre thy now repented choice.

'Tis not too late to love, and do
What Love and Nature prompt thee to,
Whilst thus thou tryumph'st in thy prime;

Thou may'st discreetly love, and use
Those Pleasures thou did'st once refuse:
But to profess it were a Crime.

How shall I know myself when I have come
To that strange land beyond the sea of death,
Ere the first voice that speaks with heavenly breath
Shall, out of all the sweet and murmurous hum,
Call me by name? How know ere I am known
That I am he who once in other spheres
Drank to the lees so many golden years
And called so many loving hearts my own?
Doubtless, my God, in ways I cannot guess,
Thou wilt reveal me to my doubting sense;
But, O my love, the sign that most shall bless,
And bring the swiftest, surest confidence,

O LOVE Divine, of all that is
The sweetest still and best,
Fain would I come and rest to-night
Upon Thy tender breast.

As tired of sin as any child
Was ever tired of play,
When evening's hush has folded in
The noises of the day;

When just for very weariness
The little one will creep
Into the arms that have no joy
Like holding him in sleep;

And looking upward to Thy face,
So gentle, sweet and strong
In all its looks for those who love,
So pitiful of wrong,

I pray Thee turn me not away,

For years I've dreamed the sweetest dream:—
A baby's little form
Is cuddled close against my breast,
Its tiny body warm.
Its little hand clings tight to mine,
Confiding to be led;
Its childish prattle, laugh and fun
Quite fill the years ahead.

I catch my breath and face the fact:
No baby's little-form,
Will ever nestle close to me,
Its tiny body warm;
No little hands will cling to mine,
Confiding to be led,
I look into the future—
The lonely years ahead;

My throat contracts, I feel the ache,

A KITTEN , crying in the cold,
A mongrel pup, astray,
A baby wailing, motherless,
Love hears along the way.

But Love will take the kitten home,
The mongrel gone astray —
The baby lacking pedigree,
For Love will find a way.

Love will not flee self-sacrifice,
Be chances what they may;
But-follows when the good Heart leads,
True Love must win the day.

If you would heal the wounds of man,
Love is the balm to use —
It flows from loving hearts — and is
A balm that none refuse.

Oh ! my Beloved, could you see
What I now see and understand,
You would not grieve despairingly,
And grope in darkness for my hand.

This life is but a little span —
Our love will soar from plane to plane;
When you have wrought the Master's plan,
Then soul to soul we meet again.

Weep not, dear wife, for heart tOheart,
We wove the magic warp of love;
No truer could an arrow dart,
Than will your soul to mine above.

Our love will live through all the years
That reach into eternity,
Oh! my Beloved, dry your tears,

Amids such Heate of Businesse, such State-throng
Disputing Right and Wrong,
And the sowre Iustle of Unclos'd Affayres;
What meane those Glorious Payres?
That Youth? That Virgin? Those All Dresst?
The Whole, and every Face, a Feast?
Great Omen! O ye Powr's,
May this Your Knot be Ours!
Thus while Cold things with Hott did jarre,
And Dry with Moyst made Mutuall Warre,
Love from that Masse did leap;
And what was but an Heap
Rude and Ungatherd, swift as thought, was hurld
Into the Beauty of an Ordred World.

A look that passeth from thine eyes to mine,
A kiss which thine upon my lips have pressed —
May one whom knowledge of such joys hath blessed,
May she, forsooth, for other joys repine?

Estranged from friends, my life apart from thine,
My thoughts still circle in unending quest,
And evermore upon that hour they rest,
That solitary hour: — then fill my eyne.

The tear-drop dries unheeded on my cheek;
He loves, think I; though silent, loves thee still,
And why should distance keep thy love unspoken?
Oh, let this whisper of affection speak;