Page:The Yellow Book - 08.djvu/372

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The Quest of Sorrow
FOAM-FLOWERSAmong the blue of Hyacinth's golden bells(Sad is the Spring, more sad the new-mown hay),Thou art most surely less than least divine,Like a white Poppy, or a Sea-shell grey.I dream in joy that thou art nearly mine;Love's gift and grace, pale as this golden day,Outlasting Hollyhocks, and Heliotrope(Sad is the Spring, bitter the new-mown hay).The wandering wild west wind, in salt-sweet hope,With glad red roses, gems the woodland way.
Envoi A bird sings, twittering in the dim air's shine,Amid the mad Mimosa's scented spray,Among the Asphodel, and Eglantine,"Sad is the Spring, but sweet the new-mown hay."

I had not heard from the editor, and was anticipating the return of my poem, accompanied by some expressions of ignorant contempt that would harrow my feelings, when it happened that I took up the frivolous periodical. Fancy my surprise when there, on the front page, was my poem—signed, as my things are always signed, "Lys de la Vallée" Of course I could not repress the immediate exhilaration produced by seeing oneself in print; and when I went home I found a letter, thanking me for the amusing parody on a certain modern school of verse—and enclosing ten-and-six!

A parody! And I had written it in all seriousness!

Evidently literary failure was not for me. After all, what I wanted most was an affair of the heart, a disappointment in love,an

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