The other women, full of spite, Count me the happiest woman born To be so worshipped; I delight To flaunt his homage in their sight,-- For me the rose, for them its thorn. I love him--or I think I do; Sure one MUST love what is so sweet. He is all tender and all true, All eloquent to plead and sue, All strength--though kneeling at my feet. Yet I had visions once of yore, Girlish imaginings of a zest, A possible thrill,--but why run o'er These fancies?--idle dreams, no more; I will forget them, this is best. So let him take,--the past is past; The future, with its golden key, Into his outstretched hands I cast. I shall love him--perhaps--at last, As now I love his love for me. II. Nor as all other women may, Love I my Love; he is so great, So beautiful, I dare essay No nearness but in silence lay My heart upon his path,--and wait. Poor heart! its healings are so low He does not heed them passing by, Save as one heeds, where violets grow, A fragrance, caring not to know Where the veiled purple buds may lie. I sometimes think that it is dead, It lies so still. I bend and lean, Like mother over cradle-head, Wondering if still faint breaths are shed Like sighs the parted lips between. And then, with vivid pulse and thrill, It quickens into sudden bliss At sound of step or voice, nor will Be hushed, although, regardless still, He knows not, cares not, it is his. I would not lift it if I could; The little flame, though faint and dim As glow-worm spark in lonely wood, Shining where no man calls it good, May one day light the path for him,-- May guide his way, or soon or late, Through blinding mist or wintry rain; And, so content, I watch and wait. Let others share his happier fate, I only ask to share his pain! And if some day, when passing by, My dear Love should his steps arrest, Should mark the poor heart waiting nigh, Should know it his, should lift it,--why, Patience is good, but joy is best! AFTER-GLOW. My morn was all dewy rose and pearl, Peace brimmed the skies, a cool and fragrant air Caressed my going forth, and everywhere The radiant webs, by hope and fancy spun, Stretched shining in the sun. Then came a noon, hot, breathless, still,-- No wind to visit the dew-thirsty flowers, Only the dust, the road, the urging hours; And, pressing on, I never guessed or knew That day was half-way through. And when the pomp of purple lit the sky, And sheaves of golden lances tipped with red Danced in the west, wondering I gazed, and said, "Lo, a new morning comes, my hopes to crown!" Sudden the sun dropped down