Young Love lies drowsing Away to poppied death; 50 Cool shadows deepen Across the sleeping face: So fails the summer With warm, delicious breath; And what hath autumn To give us in its place? Draw close the curtains Of branched evergreen; Change cannot touch them With fading fingers sere: 60 Here the first violets Perhaps will bud unseen, And a dove, may be, Return to nestle here. TWICE I took my heart in my hand (O my love, O my love), I said: Let me fall or stand, Let me live or die, But this once hear me speak-- (O my love, O my love)-- Yet a woman's words are weak; You should speak, not I. You took my heart in your hand With a friendly smile, 10 With a critical eye you scanned, Then set it down, And said: It is still unripe, Better wait awhile; Wait while the skylarks pipe, Till the corn grows brown. As you set it down it broke-- Broke, but I did not wince; I smiled at the speech you spoke, At your judgement that I heard: 20 But I have not often smiled Since then, nor questioned since, Nor cared for corn-flowers wild, Nor sung with the singing bird. I take my heart in my hand, O my God, O my God, My broken heart in my hand: Thou hast seen, judge Thou. My hope was written on sand, O my God, O my God: 30 Now let thy judgement stand-- Yea, judge me now. This contemned of a man, This marred one heedless day, This heart take Thou to scan Both within and without: Refine with fire its gold, Purge thou its dross away-- Yea, hold it in Thy hold, Whence none can pluck it out. 40 I take my heart in my hand-- I shall not die, but live-- Before Thy face I stand; I, for Thou callest such: All that I have I bring, All that I am I give, Smile Thou and I shall sing, But shall not question much. SONGS IN A CORNFIELD A song in a cornfield Where corn begins to fall, Where reapers are reaping, Reaping one, reaping all. Sing pretty Lettice, Sing Rachel, sing May; Only Marian cannot sing While her sweetheart's away. Where is he gone to And why does he stay? 10 He came across the green sea But for a day, Across the deep green sea To help with the hay. His hair was curly yellow And his eyes were grey, He laughed a merry laugh And said a sweet say. Where is he gone to That he comes not home? 20 To-day or to-morrow He surely will come. Let him haste to joy Lest he lag for sorrow, For one weeps to-day Who'll not weep to-morrow: To-day she must weep For gnawing sorrow, To-night she may sleep And not wake to-morrow. 30