Gertrude Bartlett Poems

THERE sounds his step receding on the stair,
The bridegroom's, that my love could not detain;
For whose captivity the woman's snare
...

THE end that Love doth seek, what bard can say,
In that fair season when the tender green
Of opening leaves doth roof the woods of May,
...

O LOVE, put by the flute.
Too slight the tender, liquid strain
We heard amid the April rain
Of wild white blooms, to voice the spell
...

WHO may the victors be, not yet we know;
Our care, all sights set true, the shell in place,
The flame outleaping, sending death apace
...