Once, I told her my desire.
(Tildy promised in the choir.)
Well, those days are past, and now
Come gray hairs, and yet somehow
I can't think those years have fled--
Still those roadways know my tread,
Still I climb that old pine stair,
Sit upon the stiff-backed chair,
Stealing glances toward my left
Till her eyes repay the theft;
Death's a dream and Time's a liar--
Tildy still is in the choir.
Come, Matilda number two,
_Fin de siecle _maiden you!
Wonder if you'd like to see
Her I loved in fifty-three?
Yes? All right, then go and find
Mother's picture--"Papa!"--Mind!
She and I were married. You
Were our youngest. Now you, too,
Raise the same old anthems till
All the church is hushed and still
With a single soul to hear.
Do I flatter? Ah, my dear,
Time has brought my last desire--
Tildy still _is_ in the choir!
FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES.
_Wesleyan Literary Monthly_.
~A Memory.~
We sat in the lamplight's gentle glow,
Alone on the winding stair,
And the distant strains of a waltz fell low
On the fragrance-laden air.
I caught from her lips a murmured "yes,"
And the stately palms amid
There came a blissful, sweet caress--
I shouldn't have--but I did!
I might forget that joyous night,
As the months slip swiftly by;
I might forget the gentle light
That shone in her hazel eye;
But I can't forget that whispered "yes"
That came the palms amid,
I can't forget that one caress--
I shouldn't have--but I did!
GUY WETMORE CARRYL
_Columbia Spectator.
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