Among the blue of Hyacinth's golden bells
(Sad is the Spring, more sad the new-mown hay),
Thou art most surely less than least divine,
Like a white Poppy, or a Sea-shell grey.
I dream in joy that thou art nearly mine;
Love's gift and grace, pale as this golden day,
Outlasting Hollyhocks, and Heliotrope
(Sad is the Spring, bitter the new-mown hay).
The wandering wild west wind, in salt-sweet hope,
With glad red roses, gems the woodland way.
A bird sings, twittering in the dim air's shine,
Amid the mad Mimosa's scented spray,
Among the Asphodel, and Eglantine,
"Sad is the Spring, but sweet the new-mown hay."
I had not heard from the editor, and was anticipating the return of my poem, accompanied by some expressions of ignorant contempt that would harrow my feelings, when it happened that I took up the frivolous periodical. Fancy my surprise when there, on the front page, was my poem—signed, as my things are always signed, "Lys de la Vallée" Of course I could not repress the immediate exhilaration produced by seeing oneself in print; and when I went home I found a letter, thanking me for the amusing parody on a certain modern school of verse—and enclosing ten-and-six!
A parody! And I had written it in all seriousness!
Evidently literary failure was not for me. After all, what I wanted most was an affair of the heart, a disappointment in love,an
