The Emmett Index

TO-NIGHT.

I wonder
Where my little Love hath gone—
To what far land
Her soul hath strayed!
She was not wont to stay
So long away
From me!
But as some dove
Unto her nest,
Would, at eventide
Creep to my breast,
And there abide
In sweet content.
I wonder
If she be not afraid
Out there
Beneath God's fair, blue sky.
How I dream!
She is not there—
And yet, my heart will have it so.
And grieve and grieve
Above her narrow bed.
The night is fair
And little winds stir lovingly
The branches downward bent
Above her grave.
A lily lifts
Its chaliced cup
That birds may sup
Upon their homing way.
Above the grave but newly mown
(Oh, God! How lately sown!)
That runs across
Her quiet breast
With green, sweet feet.
And little birds are mating
(Ah, love! Our mating was so sweet!);
In the tops of crested trees
Above her head
The moonlight drifts
In slanting bars
Of tranquil light
That seem to pave
A pathway upward, through the stars.
Oh, Love! My Love!
Do you know
How lonely I am to-night?

—New Orleans Times-Democrat.