Earth, I dare not cling to thee
Lest I should lose my precious soul.
_'Tis not more wondrous than the fluff
Within the milkweed's autumn boll._
Earth, shall my sacred essences
But sink into thy senseless dust?
_The springtide takes its way with them--
And blossoms blow as blossoms must._
Earth, I swear with solemn vow,
I feel a greatness in my breath!
_The grass-seed hath its dream of God,
Its visioning of life and death._
_Anita Fitch_
_LES CRUELS AMOUREUX_
Two lovers wakened in their tombs--
They had been dead a hundred years--
And in the _langue_ of old Provence
They spoke of ancient tears.
"_M'amour_," she called, "I've pardoned you;"
(How sad her dreaming seemed to be!)
"When I had kissed your dead face once
Love's sweet returned to me."
"_M'amour_," he called, "it was too late."
(How dreary seemed his ghostly sighs!)
"Blessed the soul that love forgives,"
He whispered, "ere it dies."
And then they turned again and slept
With must and mold in ancient way;
And so they'll sleep and wake, 'tis told,
Until the Judgment Day.