If you should cease to love me, tell me so! I could not bear to feel your ardent hand That waked the chords of life to understand, Hold mine less closely; no, belovèd, no; If you should cease to love me, tell me so! If you should cease to love me, do not dare To meet me with a masque of tenderness; I could not stoop to suffer one caress That any other had the right to share,-- If you should cease to love me, do not dare! If you should cease to love me, do not fear-- I would not have you think I made one claim. If your great love should pass, there is no blame; For love grown cold, I would not shed a tear;-- If you should cease to love me, do not fear! If you should cease to love me, let us part, As friends who part for all eternity; Let us make grave the reverent obsequy For what was once our very soul and heart-- If you should cease to love me, let us part! But while you love me, keep our hearts’ deep faith As some High Priest would guard the holy place; Let me not see the shame upon your face Of one unworthy of Love’s vital breath, So while you love me, keep our hearts’ high faith! Thus, if you cease to love me, save my soul By having kept our love so pure and high That if the time must come when it shall die, I may retain my treasure fair and whole,-- If you should cease to love me,--save my soul! _Scribner’s_ _Corinne Roosevelt Robinson_ VAIN EXCUSE Be patient, Life, when Love is at the gate, And when he enters let him be at home. Think of the roads that he has had to roam, Think of the years that he has had to wait. But if I let Love in I shall be late. Another has come first, there is no room; And I am busy at the thoughtful loom; Let Love be patient, the importunate. O Life, be idle, and let Love come in, And give thy dreamy hair that Love may spin. But Love himself is idle with his song. Let Love come last, and then may Love last long. Be patient, Life, for Love is not the last; Be patient now with Death, for Love has passed. _The Trend_ _Walter Conrad Arensberg_ SONNET XXX You mean, my friend, you do not greatly care For these harsh portraits I have lately done? You like my old style better,--like the rare Enamelled softness of that princess-one? True, this old woman, with the sunken throat Painted like cordage, is not sweet to view. Perhaps the blear whites of her eyes connote No element of loveliness to you. Ah yes, we all must love the sapphire lake, The rainbow, and the rose,--but these alone? Or is there some slight wonder where pines shake On bare-ribbed mountain-peaks of shattered stone? So these disturb? I fear this is the end Of days when I shall please your taste, my friend. _The Forum_ _Arthur Davison Ficke_