Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/93

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Yet we shall brood upon this haunt of wingsWhen love, like perfume washed away in rain,Dies in the years. Still we shall turn again,Seeking the clouds as we have sought the sea,Asking the peace of these immortal thingsThat will not mix with our mortality.
The New RepublicFrank Ernest Hill


TO ROBINSON CRUSOE
So to be loved and listened to and touchedBy crowds of moist-fingered little folksWith eyes of wonder—who would save his lifeAnd hug an English hearth for seventy years,When to be shipwrecked is to live forever?You thought you were dead to the world, but you were wrong,Old Crusoe, when you bobbed up on that isleOf curious creatures waiting to be tamed,And lonely footprints waiting for a friend.Dreaming of cobbled streets you fought your wayAlone, and built your little brave stockade;Sick for a roof in England, long dumb hoursYou smoked your pipe out by your unshared fire;You thought that all was over, never guessedYou were piling years up, looking to the daysWhen little children would not let you die!
Smith's MagazineMarie Louise Hersey

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