You blazon me with jewelled insignia. A flaming nebula Rims in my life. And yet You set The word upon me, unconfessed To go unguessed. The Great Hunt. [Carl Sandburg] I cannot tell you now; When the wind's drive and whirl Blow me along no longer, And the wind's a whisper at last -- Maybe I'll tell you then -- some other time. When the rose's flash to the sunset Reels to the wrack and the twist, And the rose is a red bygone, When the face I love is going And the gate to the end shall clang, And it's no use to beckon or say, "So long" -- Maybe I'll tell you then -- some other time. I never knew any more beautiful than you: I have hunted you under my thoughts, I have broken down under the wind And into the roses looking for you. I shall never find any greater than you. Dialogue. [Walter Conrad Arensberg] Be patient, Life, when Love is at the gate, And when he enters let him be at home. Think of the roads that he has had to roam. Think of the years that he has had to wait. ~But if I let Love in I shall be late. Another has come first -- there is no room. And I am thoughtful of the endless loom -- Let Love be patient, the importunate.~ O Life, be idle and let Love come in, And give thy dreamy hair that Love may spin. ~But Love himself is idle with his song. Let Love come last, and then may Love last long.~ Be patient, Life, for Love is not the last. Be patient now with Death, for Love has passed. Song. [Margaret Widdemer] The Spring will come when the year turns, As if no Winter had been, But what shall I do with a locked heart That lets no new year in? The birds will go when the Fall goes, The leaves will fade in the field, But what shall I do with an old love Will neither die nor yield? Oh! youth will turn as the world turns, And dim grow laughter and pain, But how shall I hide from an old dream I never may dream again? The Bitter Herb. [Jeanne Robert Foster] O bitter herb, Forgetfulness, I search for you in vain; You are the only growing thing Can take away my pain. When I was young, this bitter herb Grew wild on every hill; I should have plucked a store of it, And kept it by me still. I hunt through all the meadows Where once I wandered free, But the rare herb, Forgetfulness, It hides away from me. O bitter herb, Forgetfulness, Where is your drowsy breath? Oh, can it be your seed has blown Far as the Vales of Death? Behind the House is the Millet Plot. [Muna Lee] Behind the house is the millet plot, And past the millet, the stile; And then a hill where melilot Grows with wild camomile. There was a youth who bade me goodby Where the hill rises to meet the sky. I think my heart broke; but I have forgot All but the smell of the white melilot. Men of Harlan. [William Aspinwall Bradley]