TIME WAS MADE FOR SLAVES 



In the still soft Breton twilight, 



We were silent; words were few, 

 Till your mother came out chiding, 



For the grass was bright with dew 

 But I know your heart was beating, 



Like a fluttered, frightened dove. 

 Do you ever remember, Yvonne? 



That first faint flush of love? 



In the fulness of midsummer, 



When the apple-bloom was shed, 

 Oh, brave was your surrender, 



Though shy the words you said. 

 I am glad, so glad, Yvonne! 



To have led you home at last; 

 Do you ever remember, Yvonne! 



How swiftly the days passed? 



In your mother's apple-orchard 



It is grown too dark to stray, 

 There is none to chide you, Yvonne! 



You are over far away. 

 There is dew on your grave-grass, Yvonne! 



But your feet it shall not wet: 



[99] 



