COMRADES FIRST.

NEXT time my lover comes—I often say—
     We shall talk love and love and love alone;
     Speak in love’s faint vibrating undertone,
With breathings tender as the breath of May,
And bendings as of those who bow to pray,

     And waverings as of birds but newly flown,
     And sweet revealings as of petals blown
From some red rose heart on a woodside spray.

Then when we meet flies forth impetuous speech,
     Thought thrust in word as hand within its glove,

          The rush of comment and the play of wit,
Opinions wrestling, laughing, each to each . . . .
     Next time he comes we shall talk love, love,love!
          This time keen thought and all the joy of it! [Page 168]