In the pathway of the sun,

And bitter it beat at waking,And sore it split in sleep.And when it came November,I sought my heart, and sighed,‘Poor thing, do you remember?’‘What heart was that?’ it cried.

And coaxed my infant nights to quiet,And gave me roughage in my diet,And tucked me in my bed at eight,And clipped my hair, and marked my weight,And watched me as I sat and stood:That I might grow to womanhoodTo hear a whistle and drop my witsAnd break my heart to clattering bits.

Since he took his play with me.Cruel well the bow-boy aimed,Shot, and saw the feathered shaftDripping bright and bitter red.He that shrugged his wings and laughed-Better had he left me dead.Sweet, why do you plead me, then,Who have bled so sore of that?Could I bear it once again? . . .Drop a hat, dear, drop…

The field is white and flowering lace,The birches leap and bend,The hills, beneath the roving sun,From green to purple pass,And little, trifling breezes runTheir fingers through the grass.So good it is, so gay it is,So calm it is, and pure.A one whose eyes may look on thisMust be the happier, sure.But me- I see it…

My heart is high again; but oh,I doubt if this will get me much.

Whilst those whose love is thin and wiseMay view John Knox in Paradise.