Because he could not change the hie, And years instead of hours employed, Of flesh and bone and nerve beneath Lines and hue of the outer sheath, If haply I might reproduce One motive of the mechanism, A whole life long for their sole sake. 50 60 ༡༠ Shall earth and the cramped moment-space Now the parts and then the whole ! Who art thou, with stinted soul THERE is nothing to remember in me, Nothing I was that deserves a place 2. Conceded! In turn, concede to me, Such things have been as a mutual flame. 3. For then, then, what would it matter to me That I was the harsh, ill-favored one? St. 1. Nothing I did that you care to see: refers to her art-work. 80 We both should be like as pea and pea; It was ever so since the world begun : 4. How strange it were if you had all me, 5. Strange, if a face, when you thought of me, With eyes as dear in their due degree, Much such a mouth, and as bright a brow, 6. Well, you may, you must, set down to me A passion to stand as your thoughts approve, 7. But did one touch of such love for me Come in a word or å look of yours, Round me and round while life endures,· Could I fancy "As I feel, thus feels He;" St. 3. Here it is indicated that she had not the personal charms which were needed to maintain her husband's interest. A pretty face was more to him than a deep loving soul. St. 6. vv. 3-5 express the entire devotion and submissiveness of her love. 8. Why, fade you might to a thing like me, And your hair grow these coarse hanks of hair, Your skin, this bark of a gnarled tree, You might turn myself! should I know or care, When I should be dead of joy, James Lee? A TALE. EPILOGUE TO THE TWO POETS OF CROISIC." WHAT a pretty tale you Once upon a time I. told me - Said you found it somewhere (scold me !) Greek or Latin? Greek, you said, While your shoulder propped my head. 2. Anyhow there's no forgetting This much if no more, That a poet (pray, no petting !) Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore, Went where suchlike used to go, Singing for a prize, you know. 3. Well, he had to sing, nor merely 4. There stood he, while deep attention -Judges able, I should mention, To detect the slightest sound 5. None the less he sang out boldly, Till the judges, weighing coldly Each note's worth, seemed, late or soon, Sure to smile "In vain one tries Picking faults out: take the prize!" 6. When, a mischief! Were they seven Strings the lyre possessed? Oh, and afterwards eleven, Thank you! Well, sir,—who had guessed One of those same seven strings snapped. 7. All was lost, then! No! a cricket (What "cicada"? Pooh!) - Some mad thing that left its thicket With its little heart on fire, Lighted on the crippled lyre. St. 7. "Cicada," do you say? Pooh! that's bringing the mysterious little thing down to the plane of entomology. |