[from Collected Works, T.E.Brown]

OCTAVES

I KNOW a weaver and his wife,
And he is fair, and she is dark—
That breeds no strife
Within their peaceful ark.
The fairest man in all our town
Is he, light-flaxen, with a plus
Of marigold ; her brown
Is brown of Stradivarius.

She keeps the humblest kind of shop,
Sells "goodies" to the little ones,
The knob, the drop
Acidulous ; he runs
The timely threads, the boding tints
He summons in accordant row;
Babes buying peppermints
Observe the gath'ring purpose grow.

Hums the dull loom ; I enter; pauses
The shopping, and the weaving.
Straight Her loud " O Lawses
Proclaim me designate
The erst beloved. I feel the dribble
Of fire volcanic in my soul
Long quenched - Cumæan Sibyl?
Nay, but the Delphic aureole !

Wrinkled and wizen ? Every line
Is furrowed with sweet longings ; flames
Disused entwine
Our hearts ; the once dear names,
The ties no fateful force can sunder,
Recur. Unthought occasion wiles
Our lips ; the children wonder,
I hesitate, the weaver smiles.