AGAIN.

Well, I've met her again—at the Mission. She'd told me to see her no more; It was not a command—a petition; I'd granted it once before.

Yes, granted it, hoping she'd write me. Repenting her virtuous freak— Subdued myself daily and nightly For the better part of a week.

And then ('twas my duty to spare her The shame of recalling me) I Just sought her again to prepare her For an everlasting good-bye.

O, that evening of bliss—shall I ever Forget it?—with Shakespeare and Poe! She said, when 'twas ended: "You're never To see me again. And now go."

As we parted with kisses 'twas human And natural for me to smile As I thought, "She's in love, and a woman: She'll send for me after a while."

But she didn't; and so—well, the Mission Is fine, picturesque and gray; It's an excellent place for contrition— And sometimes she passes that way.

That's how it occurred that I met her, And that's ah there is to tell— Except that I'd like to forget her Calm way of remarking: "I'm well."

It was hardly worth while, all this keying My soul to such tensions and stirs To learn that her food was agreeing With that little stomach of hers.