he starlight and the dew,

[Illustration]

To listen--smile and listen to the tinkle of the strings
Of the sweet guitar my lover's fingers fondle, as he sings?
And the nude moon slowly, slowly shoulders into view,
Shall I vanish from his vision--when my dreams come true?

When my dreams come true--shall the simple gown I wear
Be changed to softest satin, and my maiden-braided hair
Be raveled into flossy mists of rarest, fairest gold,
To be minted into kisses, more than any heart can hold?--
Or "the summer of my tresses" shall my lover liken to
"The fervor of his passion"--when my dreams come true?

II

When my dreams come true--I shall bide among the sheaves
Of happy harvest meadows; and the grasses and the leaves
Shall lift and lean between me and the splendor of the sun,
Till the moon swoons into twilight, and the gleaners' work is done--
Save that yet an arm shall bind me, even as the reapers do
The meanest sheaf of harvest--when my dreams come true.

When my dreams come true! when my dreams come true!
True love in all simplicity is fresh and pure as dew;
The blossom in the blackest mold is kindlier to the eye
Than any lily born of pride that looms against the sky:
And so it is I know my heart will gladly welcome you,
My lowliest of lovers, when my dreams come true.

[Illustration]

NOTHIN' TO SAY

Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say!
Gyrls that's in love, I've noticed, ginerly has their way!
Yer mother did afore you, when her folks objected to me--
Yit here I am, and here you air; and yer mother--where is she?

You look lots like yer mother: Purty much same in size;
And about the same complected; and favor about the eyes:
Like her, too, about _livin'_ here,--because _she_ couldn't stay:
It'll 'most seem like you was dead--like her!--But I hain't got
nothin' to say!

She left you her little Bible--writ yer name acrost the page--
And left her ear bobs fer you, ef ever you come of age.
I've allus kep'em and gyuarded 'em, but ef yer goin' away--
Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say!

You don't rikollect her, I reckon? No; you wasn't a year old then!
And now yer--how old _air_ you? W'y, child, not _"twenty!"_ When?
And yer nex' birthday's in Aprile? and you