. The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill. stem, whose tip was lost in cloud,And from its bowl a bubble floated was the earth, with land and mimic seas. And Olive-cheek had made far overheadA gorge of blue in the sky, with clifi^s of cloudRounded, and white as salt, and in betweenA headlong fallen angel plunging down. But Restless-face most lovingly had drawnThe slim sweet maid who was to be their judge,Looking with such unearthly deeps of eyesInto your very soul, you dare not love —You dare not even dream how fair they they should flash upon your dream with scorn. 32 THE
. The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill. stem, whose tip was lost in cloud,And from its bowl a bubble floated was the earth, with land and mimic seas. And Olive-cheek had made far overheadA gorge of blue in the sky, with clifi^s of cloudRounded, and white as salt, and in betweenA headlong fallen angel plunging down. But Restless-face most lovingly had drawnThe slim sweet maid who was to be their judge,Looking with such unearthly deeps of eyesInto your very soul, you dare not love —You dare not even dream how fair they they should flash upon your dream with scorn. 32 THE FOUR PICTURES And as they looked, lo ! she herself had then the others stole away,With friendly mischief in their nod and those two alone. From silken meshShe drew the broad gold pieces, that betrayedHer trembling touch in tinklings he : I give you all the world I have, —I ask but what is all the world to answering not, with tender eyes cast down,She left in his her little, warm, white HOUSE WHERE SILL WAS BORN, WINDSOR, CONN., 1841 POEMS WRITTEN BETWEEN 1862 AND 1867 THE RUBY HEART A childs story Under a fragrant blossom-bellA tiny Fairy once did moss was bright about her little face was fair and sweet,Her form in rainbow hues was yet the Fairys soul was sad ;For, of the Elves that round her in the yellow moonlight was no Spirit that she loved. Many a one there was, I ween,Among the sprites that danced the hands were warm to clasp her voices kindly in their tone ;But love the fondest and the bestAwaked no answer in her breast:Her heart unmoved within her slept —And, I can never love ! she wept. 34 THE RUBY HEART She taught herself a quaint old songAnd crooned it over all day long: //^ prayeth hest^ who loveth bestAll things both great and small;For the dear God %vho loveth us^He made and loveth all,^ But I, she said, can never pray,Nor to His mansion
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