Through many an hour of summer haze While the long swells rocked languidly His patient fingers graved that maze Of intertwining tracery. And that sweet face with hair so trim, Love’s arrow, and two hearts that bleed, What touching romance we may read In “H to J” - to Her from Him. Old Time united them we trust - Initials linked but separate - Though both long mingled with the dust Their story we may still translate From this rude sketch. Devotedly They passed a lifetime richly blest And safe at home, together rest In sad, sweet graves beside the sea. Or did perchance, Fate intervene To bow that head in sorrow low For lover lost - what came between Those twain we cannot hope to know. The sadness of a far off day The fading of a golden dream Dim memories, how fresh they seem To ever youthful H and J! Enshrined as on a magic page A clasp knife for his only aid, Still fondly lingers age by age The love a sailor bore a maid. His name, nor hers, no one can say, No evidence besides, endures, But silent eloquence like yours Immortalizes H and J! THE CREEPING FOG Rolling in from the sea, rolling on Ghostly floods chill as death, in the dawn Swallow up all the world in their sweep As the grey currents stealthily creep Over marshland and dune, while the sun Dripping mist, scarce proclaims day begun To a landscape all eerie and wan Drowned in fog, rolling in, rolling on! Trees by oceans of droplets bedimmed Loom like shapes that our fancy has limned; Beacons set where the weird torrents range Through invisible channels and change All the loved, olden landmarks we know, Till dissolved in that strange overflow Earth and sky seem to blend and begin In the fog’s swelling tide, rolling in! WOODEN SAILOR Wooden sailor swinging war clubs On my lawn with furious tempo, Like the Don of Spanish legend He of old, who braved the windmills Looming up like giants, charged them Splintering his lance and bruising His frail bones on mad illusions; You resemble him - bold warrior, Struggling with the summer breezes, Lunging at the clouds above you. But your ludicrous gyrations In my yard, your droll gymnastics Point a world of deeper meaning, For we too, are often harried By imaginary perils; Spend the years in aimless striving Wearying the heart and sinews On fantastic undertakings; Cursed by impotent endeavor Unproductive, never-ending.