So  then  he  brought  me  some  poems,

writ  for  our  marriage-day,
"  Orange-blossoms "   he    calls   them,

"A  wreath  for  a  wedding  gay."
I  do  not  know  that  I  care  for  poems —

though  hymns  are  sweet —
I  do  not  want  to  be  talked  of,  or  sung

some  day  in  the  street.
And  at  the  time  I  was  plagued  with

these  horrible  tradesmen's  books.
And  maybe  my  words  were  dry,  and

listless  also  my  looks.
They  are  nice  enough  verses,  I  fancy

— but  oh  those  dreadful  bills  !
And  he  just  laughs  at  my  trouble,  and

calls  it  the  care  that  kills —
A    faithless     terror    of    bakers     and

butchers  and  Philistines,
Unworthy  a  true  believer  in  orthodox,

sound  divines.
Well,  they  are  pretty  verses,  and  so  1

will  write  them  here —
But  how  can  he  pen  such  trifles  with

that  shadow  of  debt  so  near  ?


ORANGE  BLOSSOMS


It  was  the  gloaming  of  the  day.
And  first  pale  glimmer  of  the  moon.
The  fishing-boats  were  in  the  bay.
And  to  and  fro  they  seemed  to  sway.
Rhythmic,  to  a  mystic  tune,
In  the  pale  glimmer  of  the  moon.
We  sat  us  on  a  thymy  bank,
Wheresea-pink  and  the  wild-rosegrew.
And  blue  campanulas  were  rank.
And  wild  geranium  blossoms  drank


170


Hilda  among  the  Broken  Gods


Red  sunsets  that  enriched  their  hue,
And  pansies  twinkled,  gold  and  blue.
And  fronting  us  the  broad  sea-sand
Spread,  ribbed  and  freckled,  to  the  spray
Crisp-curving  to  the  curving  land.
And  plashing  on  the  pebbly  strand  ;
Beyond,  the  vague,  vast  waters  lay
Lazily  heaving  in  the  bay.
Three  children  played  along  the  beach
With    laughter,    as    the    small   waves

broke ;
I  heard  their  laughter  and  their  speech
Rippling  along  the  sandy  beach.
