“Yes; that I fixed it firm up there I am proud, Facing the hail and snow and sun and cloud, And to stand storms for ages, beating round When I lie underground.” THE SAILOR’S MOTHER “O WHENCE do you come, Figure in the night-fog that chills me numb?” “I come to you across from my house up there, And I don’t mind the brine-mist clinging to me That blows from the quay, For I heard him in my chamber, and thought you unaware.” “But what did you hear, That brought you blindly knocking in this middle-watch so drear?” “My sailor son’s voice as ’twere calling at your door, And I don’t mind my bare feet clammy on the stones, And the blight to my bones, For he only knows of _this_ house I lived in before.” “Nobody’s nigh, Woman like a skeleton, with socket-sunk eye.” “Ah—nobody’s nigh! And my life is drearisome, And this is the old home we loved in many a day Before he went away; And the salt fog mops me. And nobody’s come!” From “To Please his Wife.” OUTSIDE THE CASEMENT (A REMINISCENCE OF THE WAR) WE sat in the room And praised her whom We saw in the portico-shade outside: She could not hear What was said of her, But smiled, for its purport we did not hide. Then in was brought That message, fraught With evil fortune for her out there, Whom we loved that day More than any could say, And would fain have fenced from a waft of care. And the question pressed Like lead on each breast, Should we cloak the tidings, or call her and tell? It was too intense A choice for our sense, As we pondered and watched her we loved so well. Yea, spirit failed us At what assailed us; How long, while seeing what soon must come, Should we counterfeit No knowledge of it, And stay the stroke that would blanch and numb? And thus, before For evermore Joy left her, we practised to beguile Her innocence when She now and again Looked in, and smiled us another smile. THE PASSER-BY (L. H. RECALLS HER ROMANCE) He used to pass, well-trimmed and brushed, My window every day, And when I smiled on him he blushed, That youth, quite as a girl might; aye, In the shyest way. Thus often did he pass hereby, That youth of bounding gait, Until the one who blushed was I, And he became, as here I sate, My joy, my fate. And now he passes by no more, That youth I loved too true! I grieve should he, as here of yore, Pass elsewhere, seated in his view, Some maiden new! If such should be, alas for her! He’ll make her feel him dear, Become her daily comforter, Then tire him of her beauteous gear, And disappear! “I WAS THE MIDMOST”