Page:History of Oregon Literature.djvu/310

It was only a little, childish face
 There's many and many another one
With a lovely pose and charming grace
 And yet there is none that is like it, none.

Who so shall find it with careless eyes:
 It is not a shadow-a work of art
But something to look at, love and prize
 And press to your lips and hold to your heart.

Long and lovingly you must gaze
 And fancy the pure lips speak to you,
Fancy the saint-like eyelids raise
 And the sweet eyes look you through and through.

Let your soul be filled with questionings sad
 And say: Is it best that she quit her play,
That she wonder and wait and be never glad,
 Calling me, calling me day by day?

Or is it best that she lift her eyes
 Confiding to those who are in my place,
That she smile, clear-eyed, on the sunny skies
 And laugh and sing, and—forget my face?

What if, under sorrow's sorcery
 Witching my idols, day by day,
On a wide and silent forgetful sea,
 My darling's features should drift away?

What if, when I seek her with bounding sight
 I shall find her not in the haunts of yore,
And a little specter with mournful eyes
 Shall stand in her place forevermore?

Let your tortured fancy have wildest scope
 Until it seems your heart will break,
And then with a quick and sudden hope
 Say it is all for her sweet sake.