Youth O' The Year

"Write me," she ordered, nodding her head, "A song of the rippling Spring that is gone-- A song that's different from songs that are dead-- Different as sunset is from the dawn. Sparkling with happiness, heavy with dew, Trilling and thrilling, all the way through; Fill it with heaven's own laughing blue-- Write it!" she said. So I wrote it--"Love's Pawn."

I spoke of the sunshine caught in her hair; I sang of the peach blossom's pink in her face; I mentioned the heavenly blue with great care That colored her wonderful eyes. And her grace I likened to that of a slender young tree Bowing and laughing when breezes blow free; In fact, there was naught in the Spring I could see Save this girl who with Love would ever keep pace.

She took it and read it, that poor thing of mine-- Old as a saga, young as the year-- Drank in the similes (flattering wine!), Then gave her verdict, "You are a dear; Surely no girl ever had such a song Written for her; I will treasure it long; It's so original--clever--and strong; How could you know me so well--in one year?"

I read it myself--and grew red, I confess, As a good workman should, when a poor job is done; But the joy of her laugh and the sweet, swift caress Overpaid me, a hundred to one!... And then as she stood on the brow of the hill And swayed in the wind, as Youth ever will, I think that I heard her silv'ry laugh trill.... But perish the thought that she'd spoken in fun!