We passed an orchard growing on a knoll And saw a barn perked on a rocky hill, And near the barn a house. Hosea said: "This is Sir Galahad's." We tied the horse. And we were in the silence of the country At mid-day on a day in June. No bird Was singing, fowl was cackling, cow was lowing, No dog was barking. All was summer stillness. We crossed a back-yard past a windlass well, Dodged under clothes lines through a place of chips, Walked in a path along the house. I said: "Sir Galahad is ploughing, or perhaps Is mending fences, cutting weeds." It seemed Too bad to come so far and not to find him. "We'll find him," said Hosea. "Let us sit Under that tree and wait for him." And then We turned the corner of the house and there Under a tree an old man sat, his head Bowed down upon his breast, locked fast in sleep. And by his feet a dog half blind and fat Lay dozing, too inert to rise and bark. Hosea gripped my arm. "Be still" he said. "Let's ask him where Sir Galahad is," said I. And then Hosea whispered, "God forgive me, I had forgotten, you too have forgotten. The man is old, he's very old. The years Go by unnoticed. Come! Sir Galahad Should sleep and not be waked." We tip-toed off And hurried back to Alden for the train. ST. DESERET You wonder at my bright round eyes, my lips Pressed tightly like a venomous rosette. Thus do me honor by so much, fond wretch, And praise my Persian beauty, dulcet voice. But oh you know me, read me, passion blinds Your vision not at all, and you have passion For me and what I am. How can you be so? Hold me so bear-like, take my lips with yours, Bury your face in these my russet tresses, And yet not lose your vision? So I love you, And fear you too. How idle to deny it To you who know I fear you. Here am I Who answer you what e'er you choose to ask. You stride about my rooms and open books, And say when did he give you this? You pick His photograph from mantels, dressers, drawl Out of ironic strength, and smile the while: "You did not love this man." You probe my soul About his courtship, how I ran away, How he pursued with gifts from city to city, Threw bouquets to me from the pit, or stood Like Cleopatra's Giant negro guard, Watchful and waiting at the green-room door. So, devil, that you are, with needle pricks, One little question at a time, you've inked The story in my flesh. And now at last You smile and say I killed him. Well, it's true. But what a death he had! Envy him that. Your frigid soul can never win the death I gave him.