Page:Maurine and Other Poems (1910).pdf/18

 And, followed by the clucking, clamorous hen, So like the human mother here again, Moaning because a strong, protecting arm Would shield her little ones from cold and harm, I carried back my garden hat brimful Of chirping chickens, like white balls of wool And snugly housed them.

And just then I heard A sound like gentle winds among the trees, Or pleasant waters in the summer, stirred And set in motion by a passing breeze. ’Twas Helen singing: and, as I drew near, Another voice, a tenor full and clear, Mingled with hers, as murmuring streams unite, And flow on stronger in their wedded might.

It was a way of Helen’s, not to sing The songs that other people sang. She took Sometimes an extract from an ancient book; Again some floating, fragmentary thing. And such she fitted to old melodies, Or else composed the music. One of these She sang that night; and Vivian caught the strain, And joined her in the chorus, or refrain,

Oh thou, mine other, stronger part! Whom yet I cannot hear, or see, Come thou, and take this loving heart, That longs to yield its all to thee, I call mine own—oh, come to me! Love, answer back, I come to thee, I come to thee.

This hungry heart, so warm, so large, Is far too great a care for me. I have grown weary of the charge I keep so sacredly for thee. Come thou, and take my heart from me. Love, answer back, I come to thee, I come to thee.

I am a-weary, waiting here For one who tarries long from me. Oh! art thou far, or art thou near?