Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/572

 55 (HELEN L. BOSTWICK. [1S50-C0. Dead little Dandelion In her white shroud, Heareth the Angel-breeze Call from the cloud. Tiny plumes fluttering Make no delay, Little winged Dandelion Soareth away. PEACE. The sweet face is turned to the pillow, And the white hands loosely lie : Oh, beautiful, placid angel. It cannot be hard to die ! The tress has not stirred from her fore- head. And the jessamine leaves are in sight On her bosom, — -just as I left them In the middle of the night, Ere I kissed the out-going spirit. As it passed in a gentle sigh : — It could give me no word of meaning, It could kiss me no reply ; But as I felt the lips redder and warmer Than they had been hours before. Ere the fire that had dropped from the altar. Had crept to the temple door. Let the meek face lean to the pillow. And the hands unfolded lie : Oh, beautiful, placid angel. It cannot be hard to die ! WHITE AND RED. The gi-ain grows in at my window, The rose-tree bends down from above; One bears the white flower of my Duty, And the other is crimson with Love. I will labor all day in my grain-field ; In the drowse of the breathless noon, I wiU look for no tempting tree-shadow, I will list for no rivulet's tune. I will watch — oh, never a watcher At the cradle of innocent sleep. Shall be faithful as I will be faithful, My little field safely to keep. How my sickle shall shine at the harvest ! I will gather and garner in store, For the winter that cometh so early. The winter that starveth the poor. But oh ! when each work-day is ended. How blessed the rest I shall know ; How the tendrils will turn to caress me, How the briers will wound if I go ! I shall sit with my roses — my roses — And draw from the sweetness of years : They will crowd their cool lips to my fore- head; I shall feel in the dark for their tears. I shall know if they shiver and tremble. They longed for my coming too soon — For my pretty ones cannot dissemble — And a cloud had come over the moon. Lean in, tasseled grain, at my window; Bend downward, sweet rose, from above ; Clothe my life with the whiteness of Duty, And the passionate crimson of Love.