The Story of the Ashes and the Flames 

No matter why, nor whence, nor when she came, 

There was her place. 

No  matter what men said, 

No matter what she was; living or dead, Faithful or not, he loved her all the same. 

The story was as old as human shame, But ever since that lonely night she fled, With books to blind him, he had only read The story of the ashes and the flame. 
There she was always coming pretty soon 

To  fool him back, with penitent scared eyes 

That had in them the laughter of the moon 

For baffled lovers, and to make him think — Before she gave him time enough to wink — Sin’s kisses were  the keys to Paradise.


The Old Book

I chanced upon it but to-day;

While searching in a dusty nook,

And found, though long since hid away,

This old and small moth-eaten book.

A page, discoloured, greyish-brown;

Is pencil-marked and folded down.

And now back, back through deeps of blank into a day of happy dreams;

Two humid eyes gaze into mine, a sweet face through the darkness beams — And that is all.

A ghost of age,

Appearing from a time-worn page.