Poems (Linn)/An Old Vinaigrette

by Edith Willis Linn

AN OLD VINAIGRETTE.

LITTLE gleaming box of silver
 Wrought in flowery design;
Drifted down the silent ages
 To this humble hand of mine;

From the days of kingly France,
 From the days of minuet dance,
From the days of stately graces,
 Powdered hair and painted faces;

Bring a shining thread of story
 To this all-prosaic hour;
From those castles proud and olden,
 Those salons of wit and power.

You have known the love and woe
 Of fair dames of long ago;
Round you like a love-tale wreathing
 Is the perfume of their breathing.

Silent! Not a word to give me!
 See, I raise your flowery lid;
Whisper in your heart my secret
 Knowing you will keep it hid.

One more life now leaves its trace;
 One more love has lent its grace;
Keep it sacred down the ages
 On your shining silver pages.

Now my imprint I have given
 Though you never bear my name:
Graven with your silver roses
 Are all lives of praise or blame.

All things that we touch or wear
 Must the spirit's impress bear.
Every hand that ever won you
 Left a fadeless mark upon you.

Love and hate and jealous passion,—
 All I feel have been your own;
Shall my life not breathe about you
 Purer love than you have known?

Nobler grows this life with years,
 Grander grow earth's hopes and fears;
May the traces of my living
 Make this heirloom worthier giving.