Oh, half way up the hill it was, where one might sit leaf-hidden, And stare across the canyoned depths to distant miles of blue; Upon the little path to it no foot might step unbidden. It was my nook, and mine alone, and not another knew. And when my doll was sawdust, or my little hopes were fated, Or all my world was shaken by a little idol’s fall, Up to my dear retreat I’d climb, with grief or anger weighted, And, hands behind fern-pillowed head, straightway forget it all. With tears yet damp upon my cheeks I’d fall to castle-building (The careless linnets fluttered near a little maid so still), And all the gorgeous tints I knew, and all the wealth of gilding, Were lavished on the future that I summoned there at will. “When one is small the troubles come, and then the tears must follow; When one is small one finds it good to run and cry alone, But I shall laugh to think that once I found my world so hollow-- I shall not need this little nook,” I thought, “when I am grown.” Now heart whose voice I drown by day to hear in hours of waking, Now eyes whose tears must burn the more because they may not flow, From sight of face or sound of speech if I could bear your aching, And bury it deep-hidden in the ferns of long ago! But oh! the pensive little ghost among her visions sitting Would view her weeping Future with so piteous surprise! No, I must leave her in her nook to dream her dreams unwitting-- I could not take my trouble there, I could not meet her eyes. WHEN PLAINTIVELY AND NEAR THE CRICKET SINGS Now evening comes. Now stirs my discontent.... Oh, ache of smallest, unforgotten things! How sharp you are when day and dark are blent, When beetles hurry by with vibrant wings, And plaintively and near the cricket sings. The sighing garden calls me from the door; Above the hills a little crescent swings-- Above the path where you will come no more When beetles hurry by on vibrant wings, And plaintively and near the cricket sings. THE LITTLE MEMORIES My thoughts of you ... although I strain and sigh At stubborn roots, at boughs that tear my face, No plants in all my garden grow so high, Nor fill with sturdier life a wider place. It pleases me, and wakes an old delight, To go with wordy shears in idle times And trim them as a patient gardener might, Clipping the thorny boughs to curves and rhymes. If these were all, opposing strength with strength To make my hurt an easier thing to bear; If these alone usurped my garden’s length, It would not be so hard--I should not care. But close against the ground, oh, small and weak! The trodden flowers, the little memories, grow. Uprooting fingers press them to my cheek.... Dear heart, I love you, and I miss you so. PASS BY