TWO SUNDAYS.
95
Shall hold me while the hours
That were, and are, fling flowers,
And Hope, the warden, pours
Wine for our feast.
That were, and are, fling flowers,
And Hope, the warden, pours
Wine for our feast.
TWO SUNDAYS.
I.
BABY, alone, in a lowly door,Which climbing woodbine made still lower,
Sat playing with lilies in the sun.
The loud church-bells had just begun;
The kitten pounced in the sparkling grass
At stealthy spiders that tried to pass;
The big watch-dog kept a threatening eye
On me, as I lingered, walking by.
The lilies grew high, and she reached up
On tiny tiptoes to each gold cup;
And laughed aloud, and talked, and clapped
Her small, brown hands, as the tough stems snapped,
And flowers fell till the broad hearthstone
Was covered, and only the topmost one
Of the lilies left. In sobered glee
She said to herself, "That's older than me!"
On tiny tiptoes to each gold cup;
And laughed aloud, and talked, and clapped
Her small, brown hands, as the tough stems snapped,
And flowers fell till the broad hearthstone
Was covered, and only the topmost one
Of the lilies left. In sobered glee
She said to herself, "That's older than me!"
II.
Two strong men through the lowly door,
With uneven steps, the baby bore;
They had set the bier on the lily bed;
The lily she left was crushed and dead.
With uneven steps, the baby bore;
They had set the bier on the lily bed;
The lily she left was crushed and dead.
