POETRY.
E POI— P THE wind is lazy on the sea, the ripple sleeps below the vine,
The world's a dream for you and me, a dream that will not long be mine :
But for this hour, let us together find on the cliff a sheltered place, Where I can lie on thyme or heather, and hear you speak, and
watch your face. • If one should come to you and say, " Bad is my life, my fault is such," Would you then turn your eyes away, refuse to him your hand to touch ?
And if he told you of his grief, for deeds of his, what should he fear ?
Would you help him with your belief, or say "Good-bye," my dear, my dear ?
If one in need sought you, as I, not wanting right, nor seeking grace•
But still in love with the blue sky, yet more the lover of your face, What would your answer be to him, and would you look at the bright sea, Or where the shadows are so dim, they hide your eyes and thoughts from me ?
The perfect days are very few, and rarely happiness as near, So I'm content to be with you, and watch your face, my dear, my dear.
This dream is all that we shall share: I will not risk my golden hour,
For once in life I will not dare, unless you bid who have the power.
I seek no comfort in a church, where priests remit men's foolish sin. Your gift is peace from restless search,—peace for your sake I would not win.
I'll ask no thing, and nothing tell, but watch the sunset with you here, We'll give the sun a friend's farewell, and then "Good-night," my dear, my dear. BEN KENDIM.
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