I love the words,--perhaps because, When I was leaving Mother, Standing at last in solemn pause We looked at one another, And I--I saw in Mother's eyes The love she could not tell me,-- A love eternal as the skies, Whatever fate befell me; She put her arms about my neck And soothed the pain of leaving, And though her heart was like to break, She spoke no word of grieving; She let no tear bedim her eye, For fear _that_ might distress me, But, kissing me, she said good-by, And asked our God to bless me. HORACE TO PHYLLIS Come, Phyllis, I've a cask of wine That fairly reeks with precious juices, And in your tresses you shall twine The loveliest flowers this vale produces. My cottage wears a gracious smile,-- The altar, decked in floral glory, Yearns for the lamb which bleats the while As though it pined for honors gory. Hither our neighbors nimbly fare,-- The boys agog, the maidens snickering; And savory smells possess the air As skyward kitchen flames are flickering. You ask what means this grand display, This festive throng, and goodly diet? Well, since you're bound to have your way, I don't mind telling, on the quiet. 'Tis April 13, as you know,-- A day and month devote to Venus, Whereon was born, some years ago, My very worthy friend Maecenas. Nay, pay no heed to Telephus,-- Your friends agree he doesn't love you; The way he flirts convinces us He really is not worthy of you! Aurora's son, unhappy lad! You know the fate that overtook him? And Pegasus a rider had-- I say he _had_ before he shook him! Haec docet (as you must agree): 'T is meet that Phyllis should discover A wisdom in preferring me And mittening every other lover. So come, O Phyllis, last and best Of loves with which this heart's been smitten,-- Come, sing my jealous fears to rest, And let your songs be those _I've_ written. CHRYSTMASSE OF OLDE God rest you, Chrysten gentil men, Wherever you may be,-- God rest you all in fielde or hall, Or on ye stormy sea; For on this morn oure Chryst is born That saveth you and me. Last night ye shepherds in ye east Saw many a wondrous thing; Ye sky last night flamed passing bright Whiles that ye stars did sing, And angels came to bless ye name Of Jesus Chryst, oure Kyng. God rest you, Chrysten gentil men, Faring where'er you may; In noblesse court do thou no sport, In tournament no playe, In paynim lands hold thou thy hands From bloudy works this daye. But thinking on ye gentil Lord That died upon ye tree, Let troublings cease and deeds of peace Abound in Chrystantie; For on this morn ye Chryst is born That saveth you and me. AT THE DOOR I thought myself indeed secure, So fast the door, so firm the lock; But, lo! he toddling comes to lure My parent ear with timorous knock. My heart were stone could it withstand The sweetness of my baby's plea,-- That timorous, baby knocking and "Please let me in,--it's only me."