In a recess of my heart
Is a poor street hung with lanterns.
These lanterns are my thoughts,
And they are lighted at the last hours of the evenings,
When through this street
Walks the willowy maiden from the tea-shop across the road.
One Service Breeds Another
One of this person's white-skinned friends, Bill Hawkins,
Who labours at the waterside,
Had occasion, at the time of unkind weather,
To rescue from the certain peril of drowning
One who had slipped from the edge of a wharf to the dock.
Without reward the flower serves the bee.
The mother serves the child with pain and toil.
The soldier serves his king without king's gratitutde.
And this person has noted with much private amusement,
How, since this one service rendered,
Bill Hawkins goes ever from his accustomed path
To add service to service to the one he rescued;
While the rescued one looks ever upon Bill Hawkins
With eyes of no-approval, indeed, with intense disgust.
An Offer of a Lodging
Little maid of the yellow curls
You look sad as you pass my window.
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