Why, I see her now in the open door, Where the little gourds grew up the sides and o'er The clapboard roof--! And her face-- ah, me! Wasn't it good for a boy to see-- And wasn't it good for a boy to be Out to Old Aunt Mary's? The jelly-- the Jam and the marmalade, And the cherry and quince "preserves'' she made! And the sweet-sour pickles of peach and pear, With cinnamon in 'em, and all things rare--! And the more we ate was the more to spare, Out to Old Aunt Mary's! And the old spring-house in the cool green gloom Of the willow-trees--, and the cooler room Where the swinging-shelves and the crocks were kept-- Where the cream in a golden languor slept While the waters gurgled and laughed and wept-- Out to Old Aunt Mary's. And O my brother, so far away, This is to tell you she waits to-day To welcome us--: Aunt Mary fell Asleep this morning, whispering-- "Tell The boys to come!" And all is well Out to Old Aunt Mary's. _Illileo_ Illileo, the moonlight seemed lost across the vales-- The stars but strewed the azure as an armor's scattered scales; The airs of night were quiet as the breath of silken sails, And all your words were sweeter than the notes of nightingales. Illileo Legardi, in the garden there alone, With your figure carved of fervor, as the Psyche carved of stone, There came to me no murmur of the fountain's undertone So mystically, musically mellow as your own. You whispered low, Illileo-- so low the leaves were mute, And the echoes faltered breathless in your voice's vain pursuit; And there died the distant dalliance of the serenader's lute: And I held you in my bosom as the husk may hold the fruit. Illileo, I listened. I believed you. In my bliss, What were all the worlds above me since I found you thus in this--? Let them reeling reach to win me-- even Heaven I would miss, Grasping earthward--! I would cling here, though I clung by just a kiss. And blossoms should grow odorless-- and lilies all aghast-- And I said the stars should slacken in their paces through the vast, Ere yet my loyalty should fail enduring to the last--. So vowed I. It is written. It is changeless as the past. IIlileo Legardi, in the shade your palace throws Like a cowl about the singer at your gilded porticos, A moan goes with the music that may vex the high repose Of a heart that fades and crumbles as the crimson of a rose. _The King_ They rode right out of the morning sun-- A glimmering, glittering cavalcade Of knights and ladies and every one In princely sheen arrayed; And the king of them all, O he rode ahead, With a helmet of gold, and a plume of red That spurted about in the breeze and bled In the bloom of the everglade. And they rode high over the dewy lawn, With brave, glad banners of every hue That rolled in ripples, as they rode on In splendor, two and two; And the tinkling links of the golden reins Of the steeds they rode rang such refrains As the castanets in a dream of Spain's Intensest gold and blue.