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POEMS OF THE OPEN AIR.
But through it all the image of a girl
With hazel eyes like pebbled waters clear,
And warm brown hair that wantoned into curl,
Kept his heart sweet through many a galling year,
Like to a bit of lavender long pressed
In some black chest.
At last his time was up, and Sam returned
To his dear village with its single street,
Where, in the sooty forge, the fire still burned,
As, hammering on the anvil, red with heat,
The smith wrought at a shoe with tongues aglow,
Blow upon blow.
There stood the church, with peals for death and birth,
Its ancient spire o'ertopping ancient trees,
And there the graves and mounds of unknown earth,
Gathered like little children round its knees;
