IN OTHER KEYS

“Write me,” she ordered, nodding her head,

“A song of the rippling Spring that is gone —

A song that's different from songs that are dead —

Different as sunset is from the dawn.

Sparkling with happiness, heavy with dew,

Trilling and thrilling, all the way through;

Fill it with heaven's own laughing blue —

Write it!” she said. So I wrote it — “Love's Pawn.”

I spoke of the sunshine caught in her hair;

I sang of the peach blossom's pink in her face;

I mentioned the heavenly blue with great care

That colored her wonderful eyes. And her grace

I likened to that of a slender young tree

Bowing and laughing when breezes blow free;

In fact, there was naught in the Spring I could see

Save this girl who with Love would ever keep pace.

She took it and read it, that poor thing of mine —

Old as a saga, young as the year —

Drank in the similes ( flattering wine! ),

Then gave her verdict, “You are a dear;

Surely no girl ever had such a song

Written for her; I will treasure it long;

It's so original — clever — and strong;

How could you know me so well — in one year?”

I read it myself — and grew red, I confess,

As a good workman should, when a poor job is done;

But the joy of her laugh and the sweet, swift caress

Overpaid me, a hundred to one!...

And then as she stood on the brow of the hill

And swayed in the wind, as Youth ever will,

I think that I heard her silv'ry laugh trill....

But perish the thought that she'd spoken in fun!