No More Learning

--excuse my laughing! . . .
It's a kind of catch in the breath. . . .
'But there's words more harsh than a rope is
And looks more bitter than death. '

"Murder! My Lud, if ever
Their ledgers are balanced true
Which of the pair? . . . Oh!
I reckon
That she killed something too.
. . . Is it the scent of a woman's hair
Or the scent of new-mown hay? . . .
Don't stand there shaking and staring,
For God's sake take me away. "




REFLECTIONS.




The Wind and the Hills.


We will carry our ills
To a height of the hills,
Lying down, lying still
In the lap of a hill.

The wind blowing keen
Shall again make us clean,
Both body and spirit;
As it passes we shall hear it.

The time is of thunder
And fields new turned under,
Of budding and waking;
Of thorn-blossom flaking.

Of longing and questing;
Of carol and nesting;
Of white birds on the wing
Over seas blue with spring.

But you read in the pages
Of the books of the sages,
And save that dark curtain
They know nothing certain,

Except that dark portal
Which waits all things mortal--
And conqueror or prophet
Comprehend no more of it.