We’re old pards.—But Frank he jest _Can’t_ stay still!—Wuz _prosper’n’_ here, But lit out on furder West Somers on a ranch, last year: Never heard Nary a word _How_ he liked it, tel to-day, Got this card, reads thisaway:— “Dad-burn climate out here makes Me homesick all Winter long, And when Springtime _comes_, it takes Two pee-wees to sing one song,— One sings ‘_pee_,’ And the other one ‘_wee!_’ Stay right where you air, old pard,— Wisht _I_ wuz this postal card!” AN EMPTY GLOVE I An empty glove—long withering in the grasp Of Time’s cold palm. I lift it to my lips,— And lo, once more I thrill beneath its clasp, In fancy, as with odorous finger-tips It reaches from the years that used to be And proffers back love, life and all, to me. II Ah! beautiful she was beyond belief: Her face was fair and lustrous as the moon’s; Her eyes—too large for small delight or grief,— The smiles of them were Laughter’s afternoons; Their tears were April showers, and their love— All sweetest speech swoons ere it speaks thereof. III White-fruited cocoa shown against the shell Were not so white as was her brow below The cloven tresses of the hair that fell Across her neck and shoulders of nude snow; Her cheeks—chaste pallor, with a crimson stain— Her mouth was like a red rose rinsed with rain. IV And this was she my fancy held as good— As fair and lovable—in every wise As peerless in pure worth of womanhood As was her wondrous beauty in men’s eyes.— Yet, all alone, I kiss this empty glove— The poor husk of the hand I loved—and love. OUR OWN They walk here with us, hand-in-hand; We gossip, knee-by-knee; They tell us all that they have planned— Of all their joys to be,— And, laughing, leave us: And, to-day, All desolate we cry Across wide waves of voiceless graves— Good-bye! Good-bye! Good-bye! MAKE-BELIEVE AND CHILD-PLAY _THE FROG_ _Who am I but the Frog—the Frog!_ _My realm is the dark bayou,_ _And my throne is the muddy and moss-grown log_ _That the poison-vine clings to—_ _And the black-snakes slide in the slimy tide_ _Where the ghost of the moon looks blue._ _What am I but a King—a King!—_ _For the royal robes I wear—_ _A sceptre, too, and a signet-ring,_ _As vassals and serfs declare:_ _And a voice, god wot, that is equalled not_ _In the wide world anywhere!_ _I can talk to the Night—the Night!—_ _Under her big black wing_ _She tells me the tale of the world outright,_ _And the secret of everything;_ _For she knows you all, from the time you crawl,_ _To the doom that death will bring._