and he thundered on,
While in my arms you cuddled, and sighed;
And I kissed your hair and lips--and lied
When you asked if the coming light was the dawn?

We rode at night; and our love, new-found,
Gloried our way, as the pace slowed down;
Heart against heart, your fingers wound
Close about mine, ere we reached the town.
You cared, you cared! Though your firm white hand
Was cut by the reins you had held too long,
"Dear Cave-man, I love you," you said; "is it wrong?"
O, wonderful night in a wonderful land!

We ride no more, for the years have fled,
The wine of hot Youth is down to the lees;
Broken in body, I dream, instead,
Of the gold-shot Past that age ever sees.
We ride no more.... Yet the scar is still there
On the brave little hand that I kissed that night,
And my love is as strong as the hand is white;
But I wonder--I wonder--do you still care?

NOW--AND THEN

A thousand years from now, how will this earth
Conduct itself? Will there be wars, and men
Inventing things? Or will there be a dearth
Of ideas (such as we feel, now and then?)
Nobody knows. We can surmise, perchance--
But glancing that far oft is quite some glance!

A thousand years from now--in Time's swift flight--
The aeroplane itself may be passe,
And transportation on a beam of light
The natural and the ordinary way.
Men may have bodies made of metals cold
To match the hearts and brains those bodies hold!

A thousand years from now--why should we care
What Science then brings forth--we won't be here
To worry over things or to compare
The present with our past--won't that be queer?
But men, as now, will hope (as we have done)
That each new year will be a better one!

UNDERSTOOD

Out of the ruck and the roar of life
He stepped aside to rest one day,
And the flowers that grew along the way
Lifted him out of the wearisome strife
That had claimed his every waking thought
For years ... and a miracle had been wrought!

"Why have I never seen the rose
Just as a _rose_ before?" asked he.
"Always its cost was the point to me,
And not its sweetness! Do you suppose
That all these years--how long, God knows!--
I really have not _understood_ the rose?"

Walking along the quiet street
He noted a sick and fretting child;
And he waved his hand and paused and smiled
Till the baby laughed--and its laugh was sweet.
His eyes were dim as his hand he kissed
To the child, and he whispered