THE BEAD BAG
Now, on the canvas doth she stitch with care
Each glinting bead, some opal-shot, some rayed
With faint star-gold, with ivory inlaid,
And some are touched with scarlet poignant, rare
As when in June the great poinsettias flare
Against her garden wall. And some indeed,
Dusk-hued as fuchsia-bells. And thus, a bead
Of light she sews in every minute square.
Nor can I tell what pattern's in her mind—
Of flower-plot bird-haunted, or the sheer,
Moon-frosted mountain-peaks, or tranquil stream
With lilies rimmed—but of my life designed
On coarse and flimsy fabric, she my dear,
Fills every moment with the jewels of dream.
Each glinting bead, some opal-shot, some rayed
With faint star-gold, with ivory inlaid,
And some are touched with scarlet poignant, rare
As when in June the great poinsettias flare
Against her garden wall. And some indeed,
Dusk-hued as fuchsia-bells. And thus, a bead
Of light she sews in every minute square.
Nor can I tell what pattern's in her mind—
Of flower-plot bird-haunted, or the sheer,
Moon-frosted mountain-peaks, or tranquil stream
With lilies rimmed—but of my life designed
On coarse and flimsy fabric, she my dear,
Fills every moment with the jewels of dream.
THREE SONNETS TO BEATRICE
I
And didst thou never plan to hold his gaze
With girlish tricks—a loosened braid let slip
The netted coif—or wistful curve of lip—
Or flower-glimpse of half averted face?
Didst never wonder if the clinging grace
Of silks became thee better than the stiff
Brocades peacock or primrose colored? If
Sheer lawn faint-patterned as the silver haze
Above the meadow daisies hid too much
That tender hollow of thy throat where lay
With girlish tricks—a loosened braid let slip
The netted coif—or wistful curve of lip—
Or flower-glimpse of half averted face?
Didst never wonder if the clinging grace
Of silks became thee better than the stiff
Brocades peacock or primrose colored? If
Sheer lawn faint-patterned as the silver haze
Above the meadow daisies hid too much
That tender hollow of thy throat where lay
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