With only the wide, wide world between, Where memory has mortmain. Life pours more wine in the heart of man Than the heart of man can contain. Oh, heart of man and heart of woman, Thirsting for blood of the vine, Life waits till the heart has lived too much And then pours in new wine! MADELINE I almost heard your little heart Begin to beat, and since that hour Your life has grown apace and blossomed, Fed by the same miraculous power, That moved the rivulet of your life, And made your heart begin to beat. Now all day your steps are a-patter. Oh, what swift and musical feet! You sleep. I wait to see you wake, With wonder-eyes and hands that reach. I laugh to hear your thoughts that gather Too fast on your budding lips for speech. Your sunny hair is cut as if 'Twere trimmed around a yellow crock. How gay the ribbon, and oh, how cunning The flaring skirt of the little frock! You build and play and search and pry, And hunt for dolls and forgotten toys. Why do you never tire of playing, Or cease from mischief, or cease from noise? You will not sleep? You are tired of the house? You are just as naughty as you can be. Madeline, Madeline, come to the garden, And play with Marcia under the tree! MARCIA Madeline's hair is straight and yours Is just as curly as tendril vines; And she is fair, but a deeper color Your cheeks of olive incarnadines. A serious wisdom burns and glows Steadily in your dark-eyed look. Already a wit and a little stoic-- Perhaps you are going to write a book, Or paint a picture, or sing or act The part of Katherine or Juliet. I believe you were born with the gift of knowing When to remember and when to forget. And when to stifle and kill a grief, And clutch your heart when it beats in vain. The heart that has most strength for feeling Must have the strength to conquer the pain. You understand? It seems that you do-- Though you cannot utter a word to me. Marcia, Marcia, look at Madeline Building a doll-house under the tree! THE ALTAR My heart is an altar whereon Many sacrificial fires have been kindled In praise of spring and Aphrodite. My heart is an altar of chalcedony, Crowned with a tablet of bronze, Blacked with smoke, scarred with fire, And scented with the aromatic bitterness Of dead incense. Albeit let us murmur a little Doric prayer Over the ashes which lie scattered around the altar; For the April rain has wept over them, And from them the crocus smelts its Roman gold. What though there are remnants here Of faded coronals, And bits of silver string Torn from forgotten harps? Perfect amid the ashes sleeps a cup of amethyst. Let us take it and pour the sea from it, And while the savor of dead lips is washed away, Let us lift our hands to this sky of hyacinth. Let us light the altar newly, for lo! it is spring.