Page:A midsummer holiday and other poems (IA midsummerholiday00swin).pdf/115

 Love cares not for care, he has daffed her Aside as a mate for guile: The sight that my soul yearns after Feeds full my sense for awhile; Your sweet little sun-faced laughter, Your good little glad grave smile.

Your hands through the bookshelves flutter; Scott, Shakespeare, Dickens, are caught; Blake's visions, that lighten and mutter; Molière—and his smile has nought Left on it of sorrow, to utter The secret things of his thought.

No grim thing written or graven But grows, if you gaze on it, bright;