Saxe Holm's Stories/Esther Wynn's Love-Letters

I wonder what the Clover thinks?— Intimate friend of Bob-o-links, Lover of Daisies slim and white, Waltzer with Butter-cups at night; Keeper of Inn for travelling Bees, Serving to them wine dregs and lees, Left by the Royal Humming-birds, Who sip and pay with fine-spun words; Fellow with all the lowliest, Peer of the gayest and the best; Comrade of winds, beloved of sun, Kissed by the Dew-drops, one by one; Prophet of Good Luck mystery By sign of four which few may see; Symbol of Nature's magic zone, One out of three, and three in one; Emblem of comfort in the speech Which poor men's babies early reach; Sweet by the roadsides, sweet by sills, Sweet in the meadows, sweet on hills, Sweet in its white, sweet in its red, Oh, half its sweet cannot be said; Sweet in its every living breath, Sweetest, perhaps, at last, in death! Oh, who knows what the Clover thinks? No one! unless the Bob-o-links!

Pomegranate blossom! Heart of fire! I dare to be thy death, To slay thee while the summer sun Is quickening thy breath; To rob the autumn of thy wine;— Next year of all ripe seeds of thine, That thou mayest bear one kiss of mine To my dear love before my death.

For, Heart of fire, I too am robbed Like thee! Like thee, I die, While yet my summer sun of love Is near, and warm, and high; The autumn will run red with wine; The autumn fruits will swing and shine; But in that little grave of mine I shall not see them where I lie.

Pomegranate blossom! Heart of fire! This kiss, so slow, so sweet, Thou bearest hence, can never lose Even in death its heat. Redder than autumns can run with wine, Warmer than summer suns can shine, Forever that dear love of mine Shall find thy sacred hidden sweet!

"O Love, who walkest slow among my sheaves, Smiling at tint and shape, thy smile of peace, But whispering of the next sweet year's increase,— O tender Love, thy loving hope but grieves My heart! I rue my harvest, if it leaves Thee vainly waiting after harvests cease, Like one who has been mocked by title lease To barren fields.

Dear one, my word deceives Thee never. Hearts one summer have. Their grain 'Is sown not that which shall be!' Can new pain Teach me of pain? Or any ecstasy Be new, that I should speak its name again? My darling, all there was or is of me Is harvested for thine Eternity!

Three, only three my darling, Separate, solemn, slow; Not like the swift and joyous ones We used to know When we kissed because we loved each other Simply to taste love's sweet, And lavished our kisses as the summer Lavishes heat,— But as they kiss whose hearts are wrung, When hope and fear are spent, And nothing is left to give, except A sacrament!

First of the three, my darling, Is sacred unto pain; We have hurt each other often; We shall again, When we pine because we miss each other, And do not understand How the written words are so much colder Than eye and hand. I kiss thee, dear, for all such pain Which we may give or take; Buried, forgiven, before it comes For our love's sake!

"The second kiss, my darling, Is full of joy's sweet thrill; We have blessed each other always; We always will. We shall reach until we feel each other, Past all of time and space; We shall listen till we hear each other In every place; The earth is full of messengers, Which love sends to and fro; I kiss thee, darling, for all joy Which we shall know!

"The last kiss, oh, my darling, My love—I cannot see Through my tears, as I remember What it may be. We may die and never see each other, Die with no time to give Any sign that our hearts are faithful To die, as live. Token of what they will not see Who see our parting breath, This one last kiss, my darling, seals The seal of death!"