"Write me," she ordered, nodding her head,
"A song of the rippling Spring that is gone--
A song that's different from songs that are dead--
Different as sunset is from the dawn.
Sparkling with happiness, heavy with dew,
Trilling and thrilling, all the way through;
Fill it with heaven's own laughing blue--
Write it!" she said. So I wrote it--"Love's Pawn."
I spoke of the sunshine caught in her hair;
I sang of the peach blossom's pink in her face;
I mentioned the heavenly blue with great care
That colored her wonderful eyes. And her grace
I likened to that of a slender young tree
Bowing and laughing when breezes blow free;
In fact, there was naught in the Spring I could see
Save this girl who with Love would ever keep pace.
She took it and read it, that poor thing of mine--
Old as a saga, young as the year--
Drank in the similes (flattering wine!),
Then gave her verdict, "You are a _dear_;
Surely no girl ever had such a song
Written for her; I will treasure it long;
It's _so_ original--clever--and strong;
How _could_ you know me so well--in one year?"
I read it myself--and grew red, I confess,
As a good workman should, when a poor job is done;
But the joy of her laugh and the sweet, swift caress
Overpaid me, a hundred to one!...
And then as she stood on the brow of the hill
And swayed in the wind, as Youth ever will,
I think that I heard her silv'ry laugh trill....
But perish the thought that she'd spoken in fun!