And lift your arms to enfold me
And draw me down to your face,
And closer, closer, hold me
In the depths of a dumb embrace,
Till we cling without stir on the grass
Under the quiet sun,
Forgetting that all things pass,
Dead to all things but one.
COMING
An hour ago she climbed the stair
And stepped into her lonely room,
And found his letter lying there
Upon the table, in the gloom.
She dropped it with a little sigh.
Took off her hat and old green coat
And lit the lamp with scrutinous eye,
Just murmuring, “The same old note.
“He’s aching to be here, but sees
No earthly chance of coming yet.
The fates are deaf to paupers’ pleas”. . . .
She turned again, her lids were wet.
An hour ago she picked it up
And saw his opening burst of joy,
Half-blinded clasped her brimming cup,
And cried aloud, “My boy, my boy!”
