Crushing the blossoms ’neath unheeding feet.

A twisted back, a face year-scarred and grim,

A very mockery to love’s caress,

These were the only birthright given him,—

What should he know, except of ugliness?

But in his fettered heart in longing pent

A wealth of tenderness and, stranger too,

Youth full of pity,—ah, the wonderment,—

He never knew, and yet how well he knew!

The Little Ghosts

Where are they gone, and do you know

If they come back at fall o’ dew,

The little ghosts of long ago,

That long ago were you?

And all the songs that ne’er were sung,

And all the dreams that ne’er came true,

Like little children dying young,—

Do they come back to you?

I Know a Quiet Vale

I know a quiet vale where faint winds blow

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