276
HISTORY OF OREGON LITERATURE
It was only a little, childish face There's many and many another oneWith a lovely pose and charming grace And yet there is none that is like it, none.
Who so shall find it with careless eyes: It is not a shadow—a work of artBut something to look at, love and prize And press to your lips and hold to your heart.
Long and lovingly you must gaze And fancy the pure lips speak to you,Fancy the saint-like eyelids raise And the sweet eyes look you through and through.
Let your soul be filled with questionings sad And say: Is it best that she quit her play,That she wonder and wait and be never glad, Calling me, calling me day by day?
Or is it best that she lift her eyes Confiding to those who are in my place,That she smile, clear-eyed, on the sunny skies And laugh and sing, and—forget my face?
What if, under sorrow's sorcery Witching my idols, day by day,On a wide and silent forgetful sea, My darling's features should drift away?
What if, when I seek her with bounding sight I shall find her not in the haunts of yore,And a little specter with mournful eyes Shall stand in her place forevermore?
Let your tortured fancy have wildest scope Until it seems your heart will break,And then with a quick and sudden hope Say it is all for her sweet sake.
