“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!

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