But "a GRACE." There I grant he was probably right; (The rest but a verse-making ruse is) It was all that was graceful,--intangible,--light, The beauty of Molly Trefusis! Was she wooed? Who can hesitate much about that Assuredly more than obtuse is; For how could the poet have written so pat "_My_ dear little Molly Trefusis!" And was wed? That I think we must plainly infer, Since of suitors the common excuse is To take to them Wives. So it happened to her, Of course,--"little Molly Trefusis!" To the Bard? 'Tis unlikely. Apollo, you see, In practical matters a goose is;-- 'Twas a knight of the shire, and a hunting J.P., Who carried off Molly Trefusis! And you'll find, I conclude, in the "_Gentleman's Mag._," At the end, where the pick of the news is, "_On the_ (blank), _at 'the Bath,' to Sir Hilary Bragg_, _With a Fortune_, MISS MOLLY TREFUSIS." Thereupon ... But no farther the student may pry: Love's temple is dark as Eleusis; So here, at the threshold, we part, you and I, From "dear little Molly Trefusis." AT THE CONVENT GATE. Wistaria blossoms trail and fall Above the length of barrier wall; And softly, now and then, The shy, staid-breasted doves will flit From roof to gateway-top, and sit And watch the ways of men. The gate's ajar. If one might peep! Ah, what a haunt of rest and sleep The shadowy garden seems! And note how dimly to and fro The grave, gray-hooded Sisters go, Like figures seen in dreams. Look, there is one that tells her beads; And yonder one apart that reads A tiny missal's page; And see, beside the well, the two That, kneeling, strive to lure anew The magpie to its cage! Not beautiful--not all! But each With that mild grace, outlying speech, Which comes of even mood;-- The Veil unseen that women wear With heart-whole thought, and quiet care, And hope of higher good. "A placid life--a peaceful life! What need to these the name of Wife? What gentler task (I said)-- What worthier--e'en your arts among-- Than tend the sick, and teach the young, And give the hungry bread?" "No worthier task!" re-echoes She, Who (closelier clinging) turns with me To face the road again: --And yet, in that warm heart of hers, She means the doves', for she prefers To "watch the ways of men." THE MILKMAID. A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE. Across the grass I see her pass; She comes with tripping pace,-- A maid I know,--and March winds blow Her hair across her face;-- With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine.