Gordon Hamilton

To A. W. F.

HER near presence teases—the slender young red-head,

Playing at war-work, laughing as she plays.

The look in her eyes bodes a deal of mischief—

God help the bold ones till she mend her ways!

Just passed the boundary set out for childhood—

Ah, there’s a breath of April with the lass,

Lanes and little places with echoes of a one-step!

God help the shy ones, how soon their luck will pass.

She never caring for the solemn moments,

Dusty feet that go trampling the ground;

She never heeding anxious, praying persons—

God help the wakeful, how her sleep is sound!

The fragrance of violets steals quickly upwards,

All of the sky is full of shooting stars.

Half of a kiss would surely never matter—

God help our memories, what should they be but scars!