To drop upon the quiet street,

There falls the sound of coming feet:

 A happy, hastening, ardent sound, Tender as kisses on the air— Quick, as if touched by unseen lips Blushes the little statue there; 

Tender as kisses on the air—

Blushes the little statue there;

 And woman-like as young life is, And woman-like as joy may be, Tender with color, lithe with love, She starts, transfigured gloriously. 

And woman-like as joy may be,

She starts, transfigured gloriously.

 Superb in one transcendent glance— Her eyes, I see, are burning black— My little neighbor, smiling, turns, And throws my unasked pity back. 

Her eyes, I see, are burning black—

And throws my unasked pity back.

 I wonder, is it worth the while, To sit and sew from hour to hour— To sit and sew with eyes of black, Behind a pink geranium flower? 

To sit and sew from hour to hour—

Behind a pink geranium flower?

 

 

 BY THE HEARTH. 

 You come too late; 'Tis far on in November. The wind strikes bleak Upon the cheek That careth rather to keep warm, (And where 's the harm?) Than to abate One jot of its calm color for your sake. Watch! See! I stir the ember Upon my lonely hearth and bid the fire wake. 

 And think you that it will? 'T is burned, I say, to ashes. It smoulders cold As grave-yard mould. I wish indeed you would not blow Upon it so! The dead to kill. I say, the ghosts of fires will never stir, Nor woman lift the lashes Of eyes wept dim, howe'er yours 

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