"That we together may sail, Just as we used to do." Carleton's Ballads. And what if I should be kind? And what if you should be true? The old love could never go on, Just as it used to do. The wan, white hands of the waves That smote us swift apart, Will never enclasp again, And draw us heart to heart. The cold, far feet of the tides That trod between us two, Can never retrace their steps, And fall where they used to do. Oh, well the ships must remember, That go down to the awful sea, No keel that chisels the current Can cut where it used to be. Not a throb of the gloom or the glory That stirs in the sun or the rain, Will ever be _that_ gloom or glory That dazzled or darkened--again. Not a wave that stretches its arms, And yearns to the breast of the shore, Is ever the wave that came trusting, And yearning, and loving, before. The hope that is high as the heavens, The joy that is keen as pain, The faith that is free as the morning, Can die--but can live not again. And though I should step beside you, And hand should reach unto hand, We should walk mutely--stifled-- Ghosts in a breathless land. And what if I should be kind? And though you should be true? The old love could never, never Love on as it used to do. THORNS. As we pass by the roses, Into your finger-tip Bruise you the thorn. Quick at the prick you start, Crying, "Alas, the smart! Farewell, my pleasant friend, Wisely our way we wend Out of the reach of roses." Oh, we pass by the roses! Where does the red drop drip? Where is the thorn? What though 'tis hid and pressed Piercing into my breast? Scathless, I stretch my hand; Strong as their roots I stand, And dare to trust the roses. THE INDIAN GIRL. A PICTURE BY WALTER SHIRLAW. She standeth silent as a thought Too sacred to be uttered; all Her face unfurling like a flower That at a breath too near will shut. Her life a little golden clock Whose shining hands, arrested, stay Forever at the hour of Love. She doubts, she dares, she dreams--of what? I ask; she, shrinking, answers not, She swims before me, dim, a cup Of waste, untasted tenderness. I drink, I dread, until I seem (Myself unto myself) to be He whom she chose, and charmed--and missed, On some faint Asiatic day Of languorous summer, ages since. SEALED. "Shall I pour you the wine," she said, "The wine that is rare and red? Sweeter the cup for the drop."-- "But why do you shrink and stop?" "The seal of the wine Has a sacred sign; I am afraid," she said. "I love and revere You more for your fear, Than I do for your wine," he said. GUINEVERE.