With dangling basket all along the grass As I had come I went the selfsame track: My neighbors mocked me while they saw me pass So empty-handed back. Lilian and Lilias smiled in trudging by, Their heaped-up basket teased me like a jeer; Sweet-voiced they sang beneath the sunset sky, Their mother's home was near. Plump Gertrude passed me with her basket full, A stronger hand than hers helped it along; A voice talked with her through the shadows cool More sweet to me than song. Ah, Willie, Willie, was my love less worth Than apples with their green leaves piled above? I counted rosiest apples on the earth Of far less worth than love. So once it was with me you stooped to talk Laughing and listening in this very lane: To think that by this way we used to walk We shall not walk again! I let my neighbors pass me, ones and twos And groups; the latest said the night grew chill, And hastened: but I loitered, while the dews Fell fast I loitered still. SONG. Two doves upon the selfsame branch, Two lilies on a single stem, Two butterflies upon one flower:-- O happy they who look on them. Who look upon them hand in hand Flushed in the rosy summer light; Who look upon them hand in hand And never give a thought to night. MAUDE CLARE. Out of the church she followed them With a lofty step and mien: His bride was like a village maid, Maude Clare was like a queen. "Son Thomas," his lady mother said, With smiles, almost with tears: "May Nell and you but live as true As we have done for years; "Your father thirty years ago Had just your tale to tell; But he was not so pale as you, Nor I so pale as Nell." My lord was pale with inward strife, And Nell was pale with pride; My lord gazed long on pale Maude Clare Or ever he kissed the bride. "Lo, I have brought my gift, my lord, Have brought my gift," she said: "To bless the hearth, to bless the board, To bless the marriage-bed. "Here's my half of the golden chain You wore about your neck, That day we waded ankle-deep For lilies in the beck: "Here's my half of the faded leaves We plucked from budding bough, With feet amongst the lily-leaves,-- The lilies are budding now." He strove to match her scorn with scorn, He faltered in his place: "Lady," he said,--"Maude Clare," he said,-- "Maude Clare":--and hid his face. She turned to Nell: "My Lady Nell, I have a gift for you; Though, were it fruit, the bloom were gone, Or, were it flowers, the dew. "Take my share of a fickle heart, Mine of a paltry love: Take it or leave it as you will, I wash my hands thereof."