Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/51

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IIIIf Death had taken my orange-tree,Its gold-lit boughs, and magic birdsSinging for me,I would not bear, though bright the dead,This daunted head.
If Death had taken the one whose careMy fortune feeds, my roof endows,—Leaving me bare,—I'd meet the world from some kind door,Gay as before.
If Death had taken my friend, the god,Who walks among us masked as man,Wearing the clodTo find his brother, I could live,Love and forgive.
But she was Beauty; planets swing,And ages toil, that one like herMay make dust sing;And I, who held her hand, must goAlone, and know.
Scribner's MagazineOlive Tilford Dargan


UNREALITY
Through the window-pane I see your face,Its outline a little vagueIn the dimness of the shadow.But the whiteness of your skinIs like a clean ship's sail,With the rays of a thousand moonbeams sweeping overStanding out in the darkness of a night.

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