Upand away!—up, up, and away!The hedgerows are foaming with blossom to-day;Its bonfires the golden gorse lights on the hill,And the wanton wind’s wooing wherever it will.Up and away!—up, up, and away!The cuckoo’s name rings through the woodlands to-day;The warm blood of Summer runs rioting throughThe veins of each leaflet—then why not of you?Up and away!—up, up, and away!There’s Passion and Poetry stirring to-day.Half blinded with rapture, the heavy bees dartFrom the lily’s white breast to the rose’s red heart.Up and away!—up, up, and away!The old world’s begun a fresh courting to-day.I wooed you all winter, but found you as coldAs the snowdrift that gleamed on the ridge of the wold.Up and away!—up, up, and away!Your eyes tell me “Yes,” though your lips say me “Nay.”The tears, so long frost-bound, are ready to flow,And she melts in my arms, my proud maiden of snow!
Upand away!—up, up, and away!The hedgerows are foaming with blossom to-day;Its bonfires the golden gorse lights on the hill,And the wanton wind’s wooing wherever it will.Up and away!—up, up, and away!The cuckoo’s name rings through the woodlands to-day;The warm blood of Summer runs rioting throughThe veins of each leaflet—then why not of you?Up and away!—up, up, and away!There’s Passion and Poetry stirring to-day.Half blinded with rapture, the heavy bees dartFrom the lily’s white breast to the rose’s red heart.Up and away!—up, up, and away!The old world’s begun a fresh courting to-day.I wooed you all winter, but found you as coldAs the snowdrift that gleamed on the ridge of the wold.Up and away!—up, up, and away!Your eyes tell me “Yes,” though your lips say me “Nay.”The tears, so long frost-bound, are ready to flow,And she melts in my arms, my proud maiden of snow!
Upand away!—up, up, and away!The hedgerows are foaming with blossom to-day;Its bonfires the golden gorse lights on the hill,And the wanton wind’s wooing wherever it will.
Up and away!—up, up, and away!The cuckoo’s name rings through the woodlands to-day;The warm blood of Summer runs rioting throughThe veins of each leaflet—then why not of you?
Up and away!—up, up, and away!There’s Passion and Poetry stirring to-day.Half blinded with rapture, the heavy bees dartFrom the lily’s white breast to the rose’s red heart.
Up and away!—up, up, and away!The old world’s begun a fresh courting to-day.I wooed you all winter, but found you as coldAs the snowdrift that gleamed on the ridge of the wold.
Up and away!—up, up, and away!Your eyes tell me “Yes,” though your lips say me “Nay.”The tears, so long frost-bound, are ready to flow,And she melts in my arms, my proud maiden of snow!
O’ a’the bonny wee bit lassesThat e’er I’ve kent, not ane surpassesMy Elsie.An’ oh, she has sic denty ways,Auld farrant a’ she does and says;Just watch the bairnie as she plays“At mither,” dressed in mither’s claes!Like twa sweet rosebuds on ae stalk,Her lips part in her guileless talk;She hauds a key that wad unlockYer heart were’t hard as granite rock.Sae fearless are her een o’ blue,They seem tae look ye through an’ through;But though sae brave, an’ frank, an’ true,Wi’ happy fun they’re brimmin’ fu’.Adoun her shoulders floats her hair,Sae long, sae silken, an’ sae fair,—In truth it seems a verra snareThat’s caught an’ kept a sunbeam there.But better faur, those graces meetAroun’ a nature just as sweet;Methinks the bairnie is completeFrae wise wee heed tae willin’ feet.
O’ a’the bonny wee bit lassesThat e’er I’ve kent, not ane surpassesMy Elsie.An’ oh, she has sic denty ways,Auld farrant a’ she does and says;Just watch the bairnie as she plays“At mither,” dressed in mither’s claes!Like twa sweet rosebuds on ae stalk,Her lips part in her guileless talk;She hauds a key that wad unlockYer heart were’t hard as granite rock.Sae fearless are her een o’ blue,They seem tae look ye through an’ through;But though sae brave, an’ frank, an’ true,Wi’ happy fun they’re brimmin’ fu’.Adoun her shoulders floats her hair,Sae long, sae silken, an’ sae fair,—In truth it seems a verra snareThat’s caught an’ kept a sunbeam there.But better faur, those graces meetAroun’ a nature just as sweet;Methinks the bairnie is completeFrae wise wee heed tae willin’ feet.
O’ a’the bonny wee bit lassesThat e’er I’ve kent, not ane surpassesMy Elsie.
An’ oh, she has sic denty ways,Auld farrant a’ she does and says;Just watch the bairnie as she plays“At mither,” dressed in mither’s claes!
Like twa sweet rosebuds on ae stalk,Her lips part in her guileless talk;She hauds a key that wad unlockYer heart were’t hard as granite rock.
Sae fearless are her een o’ blue,They seem tae look ye through an’ through;But though sae brave, an’ frank, an’ true,Wi’ happy fun they’re brimmin’ fu’.
Adoun her shoulders floats her hair,Sae long, sae silken, an’ sae fair,—In truth it seems a verra snareThat’s caught an’ kept a sunbeam there.
But better faur, those graces meetAroun’ a nature just as sweet;Methinks the bairnie is completeFrae wise wee heed tae willin’ feet.
Ohbide a wee, my bonny lass,Nor seek to lea’ the auld hame-nest;O’ a’ earth’s luvs ye yet will fin’A mither’s highest is, an’ best.She watched you like a rose unfauld,She reads you like an open buik;You scarce need speak, she is sae quickTae understan’ yer ev’ry luik.The han’ that aye fan’ time tae patThe wee bit face sae aft turned upFor “mither’s kiss,” has workit lateAn’ early for your bite an’ sup.An’ oh! it was a struggle sairTae mak’ twa unco scrimp en’s meet;In her first days o’ weedowhoodShe scarce could spare the time tae greet.Oh dinna lea’ her yet awhile;The laddie’s young, an’ he can wait;There was a time, when you were wee,Shemicht hae had anither mate.But she was feert he micht na beAs guid’s the fayther you had lost;An’ though she could hae boucht her ease,Shewad na’ dae it at the cost.An’ noo she’s auld an’ growing frail,Your strong young arm should be her stay;Life’s dounward slope is hard eneuch,Be yours the han’ tae smooth the way.Oh, bide wi’ her, an’ you will fin’That duty done brings sweet reward;The Maister, Christ, pleased na’ Himsel’,Although He was creation’s Lord!
Ohbide a wee, my bonny lass,Nor seek to lea’ the auld hame-nest;O’ a’ earth’s luvs ye yet will fin’A mither’s highest is, an’ best.She watched you like a rose unfauld,She reads you like an open buik;You scarce need speak, she is sae quickTae understan’ yer ev’ry luik.The han’ that aye fan’ time tae patThe wee bit face sae aft turned upFor “mither’s kiss,” has workit lateAn’ early for your bite an’ sup.An’ oh! it was a struggle sairTae mak’ twa unco scrimp en’s meet;In her first days o’ weedowhoodShe scarce could spare the time tae greet.Oh dinna lea’ her yet awhile;The laddie’s young, an’ he can wait;There was a time, when you were wee,Shemicht hae had anither mate.But she was feert he micht na beAs guid’s the fayther you had lost;An’ though she could hae boucht her ease,Shewad na’ dae it at the cost.An’ noo she’s auld an’ growing frail,Your strong young arm should be her stay;Life’s dounward slope is hard eneuch,Be yours the han’ tae smooth the way.Oh, bide wi’ her, an’ you will fin’That duty done brings sweet reward;The Maister, Christ, pleased na’ Himsel’,Although He was creation’s Lord!
Ohbide a wee, my bonny lass,Nor seek to lea’ the auld hame-nest;O’ a’ earth’s luvs ye yet will fin’A mither’s highest is, an’ best.
She watched you like a rose unfauld,She reads you like an open buik;You scarce need speak, she is sae quickTae understan’ yer ev’ry luik.
The han’ that aye fan’ time tae patThe wee bit face sae aft turned upFor “mither’s kiss,” has workit lateAn’ early for your bite an’ sup.
An’ oh! it was a struggle sairTae mak’ twa unco scrimp en’s meet;In her first days o’ weedowhoodShe scarce could spare the time tae greet.
Oh dinna lea’ her yet awhile;The laddie’s young, an’ he can wait;There was a time, when you were wee,Shemicht hae had anither mate.
But she was feert he micht na beAs guid’s the fayther you had lost;An’ though she could hae boucht her ease,Shewad na’ dae it at the cost.
An’ noo she’s auld an’ growing frail,Your strong young arm should be her stay;Life’s dounward slope is hard eneuch,Be yours the han’ tae smooth the way.
Oh, bide wi’ her, an’ you will fin’That duty done brings sweet reward;The Maister, Christ, pleased na’ Himsel’,Although He was creation’s Lord!
Oh, there are happy angelsThat go on missions sweet;They have no wings to bear them,Just little human feet.When I had grown aweary,And all my faith was dim,’Twas one of them that led me,And brought me back to Him.When ’tween you and a loved oneThere lay a widening breach,And you were coldly driftingBeyond each other’s reach,A child’s hand ’twas that bridged it—A child’s soft, rosy palmHeld both your souls united,And life grew sweet and calm.When sorrows closely gathered,And heart and head were bowed,The blue eyes of a babyMade rifts in pain’s dark cloud.Oh, happy, earth-born angels,Who go on missions sweet,If ye had wings to bear you,Instead of little feet,I fear me ye would use them,Altho’ ye love us much,To soar to Him who tells usHis “Kingdom is of such.”
Oh, there are happy angelsThat go on missions sweet;They have no wings to bear them,Just little human feet.When I had grown aweary,And all my faith was dim,’Twas one of them that led me,And brought me back to Him.When ’tween you and a loved oneThere lay a widening breach,And you were coldly driftingBeyond each other’s reach,A child’s hand ’twas that bridged it—A child’s soft, rosy palmHeld both your souls united,And life grew sweet and calm.When sorrows closely gathered,And heart and head were bowed,The blue eyes of a babyMade rifts in pain’s dark cloud.Oh, happy, earth-born angels,Who go on missions sweet,If ye had wings to bear you,Instead of little feet,I fear me ye would use them,Altho’ ye love us much,To soar to Him who tells usHis “Kingdom is of such.”
Oh, there are happy angelsThat go on missions sweet;They have no wings to bear them,Just little human feet.
When I had grown aweary,And all my faith was dim,’Twas one of them that led me,And brought me back to Him.
When ’tween you and a loved oneThere lay a widening breach,And you were coldly driftingBeyond each other’s reach,A child’s hand ’twas that bridged it—A child’s soft, rosy palmHeld both your souls united,And life grew sweet and calm.
When sorrows closely gathered,And heart and head were bowed,The blue eyes of a babyMade rifts in pain’s dark cloud.
Oh, happy, earth-born angels,Who go on missions sweet,If ye had wings to bear you,Instead of little feet,
I fear me ye would use them,Altho’ ye love us much,To soar to Him who tells usHis “Kingdom is of such.”
Thereare faces just as perfect;There are eyes as true and sweet;There are hearts as strong and tenderAs the heart that’s ceased to beat;There are voices just as thrilling;There are souls as white, I know,As hers was when she went from me—My love of long ago.New lips are ever tellingThe tale that ne’er grows old;Life’s greys are always changingFor some one into gold;But amid the shine and shadow,Amid the gloom and glow,She walks with me, she talks with me—My love of long ago.When I think of all the changesThat the years to me have brought,I am glad the world that holds herIs the world that changes not.And the same as when she left me,She waits for me, I know—My love on earth, my love in heaven,My love of long ago.
Thereare faces just as perfect;There are eyes as true and sweet;There are hearts as strong and tenderAs the heart that’s ceased to beat;There are voices just as thrilling;There are souls as white, I know,As hers was when she went from me—My love of long ago.New lips are ever tellingThe tale that ne’er grows old;Life’s greys are always changingFor some one into gold;But amid the shine and shadow,Amid the gloom and glow,She walks with me, she talks with me—My love of long ago.When I think of all the changesThat the years to me have brought,I am glad the world that holds herIs the world that changes not.And the same as when she left me,She waits for me, I know—My love on earth, my love in heaven,My love of long ago.
Thereare faces just as perfect;There are eyes as true and sweet;There are hearts as strong and tenderAs the heart that’s ceased to beat;There are voices just as thrilling;There are souls as white, I know,As hers was when she went from me—My love of long ago.
New lips are ever tellingThe tale that ne’er grows old;Life’s greys are always changingFor some one into gold;But amid the shine and shadow,Amid the gloom and glow,She walks with me, she talks with me—My love of long ago.
When I think of all the changesThat the years to me have brought,I am glad the world that holds herIs the world that changes not.And the same as when she left me,She waits for me, I know—My love on earth, my love in heaven,My love of long ago.
Daisiesnod and blue-bells ring,Streamlets laugh and song birds sing,To the clover bees close cling.Cornfields wave their locks of gold,Poppies burn and wings unfold,Earth-stars twinkle on the mould.Butterflies—live blossoms, blownFrom that Eden once our own—Make of every flower a throne.And a royal purple dyesYonder heather-hill, that liesFitting footstool for the skies.And the gorse is all ablaze,Lighting up the moorland ways,And the days are golden days.E’en the myriad-mooded sea(Earth-bound, yet than earth more free)Wears a look ofconstancy.And your love, that in the springWas a shy, uncertain thing,Like a bud just blossoming,With the summer’s growth has grown,Till our two lives, lived as one,Make a summer of their own.
Daisiesnod and blue-bells ring,Streamlets laugh and song birds sing,To the clover bees close cling.Cornfields wave their locks of gold,Poppies burn and wings unfold,Earth-stars twinkle on the mould.Butterflies—live blossoms, blownFrom that Eden once our own—Make of every flower a throne.And a royal purple dyesYonder heather-hill, that liesFitting footstool for the skies.And the gorse is all ablaze,Lighting up the moorland ways,And the days are golden days.E’en the myriad-mooded sea(Earth-bound, yet than earth more free)Wears a look ofconstancy.And your love, that in the springWas a shy, uncertain thing,Like a bud just blossoming,With the summer’s growth has grown,Till our two lives, lived as one,Make a summer of their own.
Daisiesnod and blue-bells ring,Streamlets laugh and song birds sing,To the clover bees close cling.
Cornfields wave their locks of gold,Poppies burn and wings unfold,Earth-stars twinkle on the mould.
Butterflies—live blossoms, blownFrom that Eden once our own—Make of every flower a throne.
And a royal purple dyesYonder heather-hill, that liesFitting footstool for the skies.
And the gorse is all ablaze,Lighting up the moorland ways,And the days are golden days.
E’en the myriad-mooded sea(Earth-bound, yet than earth more free)Wears a look ofconstancy.
And your love, that in the springWas a shy, uncertain thing,Like a bud just blossoming,
With the summer’s growth has grown,Till our two lives, lived as one,Make a summer of their own.
Twogirls—before me now they stand,Twin tender rosebuds, hand in hand,Fashioned as one—scarce known apart;I see each face, God sees each heart.I look on ripe red lips, and eyesThat hold the blue of summer skies,And hair like finest gold refined;I see the beauty, God the mind.In womanhood’s first faint sweet dawnOh! they are fair to look upon;Perfect from crown to dainty foot;I see the bloom, God sees the fruit.What though a rose is each soft cheek,If theirs be not that spirit meek?What though their eyes are heaven’s own hue,If never wet with pity’s dew?The plainest casket may enshrineA gem that will for ever shine.Oh, may this outward beauty beBut type of inward purity!God grant when Time its tale hath told,And backward swing the gates of gold,Before the Master they may stand,Twin tender rosebuds hand in hand!
Twogirls—before me now they stand,Twin tender rosebuds, hand in hand,Fashioned as one—scarce known apart;I see each face, God sees each heart.I look on ripe red lips, and eyesThat hold the blue of summer skies,And hair like finest gold refined;I see the beauty, God the mind.In womanhood’s first faint sweet dawnOh! they are fair to look upon;Perfect from crown to dainty foot;I see the bloom, God sees the fruit.What though a rose is each soft cheek,If theirs be not that spirit meek?What though their eyes are heaven’s own hue,If never wet with pity’s dew?The plainest casket may enshrineA gem that will for ever shine.Oh, may this outward beauty beBut type of inward purity!God grant when Time its tale hath told,And backward swing the gates of gold,Before the Master they may stand,Twin tender rosebuds hand in hand!
Twogirls—before me now they stand,Twin tender rosebuds, hand in hand,Fashioned as one—scarce known apart;I see each face, God sees each heart.
I look on ripe red lips, and eyesThat hold the blue of summer skies,And hair like finest gold refined;I see the beauty, God the mind.
In womanhood’s first faint sweet dawnOh! they are fair to look upon;Perfect from crown to dainty foot;I see the bloom, God sees the fruit.
What though a rose is each soft cheek,If theirs be not that spirit meek?What though their eyes are heaven’s own hue,If never wet with pity’s dew?
The plainest casket may enshrineA gem that will for ever shine.Oh, may this outward beauty beBut type of inward purity!
God grant when Time its tale hath told,And backward swing the gates of gold,Before the Master they may stand,Twin tender rosebuds hand in hand!
Sheis waiting for his coming,As she waited long ago,Ere her sweet eyes were pain-hauntedOr her hair was touched with snow;Ere that look of patient pathosDownward curved her tender lips,Or across her life’s young morningFell a shadow of eclipse.He is coming—but his footstepsKnow not now youth’s bounding grace,And a world of sin and sufferingIs recorded in his face;Airy dreams of high ambitionThat he cherished in the past—All have vanished—and awearyHe returns to her at last.In the old familiar gardenWhere he first breathed love’s fond vow,With new hopes, like the new rosesSprung from old roots, they stand now;And the past is past for ever,She forgives, and he forgets,For the present peace has buriedYears of sorrows and regrets.
Sheis waiting for his coming,As she waited long ago,Ere her sweet eyes were pain-hauntedOr her hair was touched with snow;Ere that look of patient pathosDownward curved her tender lips,Or across her life’s young morningFell a shadow of eclipse.He is coming—but his footstepsKnow not now youth’s bounding grace,And a world of sin and sufferingIs recorded in his face;Airy dreams of high ambitionThat he cherished in the past—All have vanished—and awearyHe returns to her at last.In the old familiar gardenWhere he first breathed love’s fond vow,With new hopes, like the new rosesSprung from old roots, they stand now;And the past is past for ever,She forgives, and he forgets,For the present peace has buriedYears of sorrows and regrets.
Sheis waiting for his coming,As she waited long ago,Ere her sweet eyes were pain-hauntedOr her hair was touched with snow;Ere that look of patient pathosDownward curved her tender lips,Or across her life’s young morningFell a shadow of eclipse.
He is coming—but his footstepsKnow not now youth’s bounding grace,And a world of sin and sufferingIs recorded in his face;Airy dreams of high ambitionThat he cherished in the past—All have vanished—and awearyHe returns to her at last.
In the old familiar gardenWhere he first breathed love’s fond vow,With new hopes, like the new rosesSprung from old roots, they stand now;And the past is past for ever,She forgives, and he forgets,For the present peace has buriedYears of sorrows and regrets.
’Tis only when the wooing westHas drawn the tired sun to her breast,I seek my darling’s place of rest.In twilight-time we used to meet—Ah me, how lag our listless feetWhen we have but a grave to greet!And yet, this daisy-dappled graveSo like a soft white-crested waveIs all beneath the skies I have.On broken wings the years have flown,Oh love, since in the long agoneI left you sleeping here alone!
’Tis only when the wooing westHas drawn the tired sun to her breast,I seek my darling’s place of rest.In twilight-time we used to meet—Ah me, how lag our listless feetWhen we have but a grave to greet!And yet, this daisy-dappled graveSo like a soft white-crested waveIs all beneath the skies I have.On broken wings the years have flown,Oh love, since in the long agoneI left you sleeping here alone!
’Tis only when the wooing westHas drawn the tired sun to her breast,I seek my darling’s place of rest.
In twilight-time we used to meet—Ah me, how lag our listless feetWhen we have but a grave to greet!
And yet, this daisy-dappled graveSo like a soft white-crested waveIs all beneath the skies I have.
On broken wings the years have flown,Oh love, since in the long agoneI left you sleeping here alone!
Touchnot her hand, let not your tear-drops stainThe show-white purity of her dead brow;Withhold your lips, their passion or their painCan thrill her nor with love nor pity now.The empty years that followed your farewell—The joyless dawns, the nights that brought no restAre ended,—and those weary eyelids fellO’er eyes that had grown dim in one vain quest.Thank God for this; her woman’s faith remainedSteadfast, unshaken to the very last,And with her idol undefaced, unstained,To place it in a “niche in Heaven” she passed.But yesterday, your lightest whispered wordHad thrilled her heart, as spring’s first breath awakesThe rapture in the bosom of a birdTill winter’s silence with a song he breaks.And I,—whose love for her was purifiedIn the fierce crucible of human pain,Had felt that I was more than satisfiedIf loss of mine had ended in her gain.For her soul’s sustenance you only leftThe memory of a lightly plighted vow,To take one kiss from those dead lips were theft,The jewel was yours,—I claim the casket now.
Touchnot her hand, let not your tear-drops stainThe show-white purity of her dead brow;Withhold your lips, their passion or their painCan thrill her nor with love nor pity now.The empty years that followed your farewell—The joyless dawns, the nights that brought no restAre ended,—and those weary eyelids fellO’er eyes that had grown dim in one vain quest.Thank God for this; her woman’s faith remainedSteadfast, unshaken to the very last,And with her idol undefaced, unstained,To place it in a “niche in Heaven” she passed.But yesterday, your lightest whispered wordHad thrilled her heart, as spring’s first breath awakesThe rapture in the bosom of a birdTill winter’s silence with a song he breaks.And I,—whose love for her was purifiedIn the fierce crucible of human pain,Had felt that I was more than satisfiedIf loss of mine had ended in her gain.For her soul’s sustenance you only leftThe memory of a lightly plighted vow,To take one kiss from those dead lips were theft,The jewel was yours,—I claim the casket now.
Touchnot her hand, let not your tear-drops stainThe show-white purity of her dead brow;Withhold your lips, their passion or their painCan thrill her nor with love nor pity now.
The empty years that followed your farewell—The joyless dawns, the nights that brought no restAre ended,—and those weary eyelids fellO’er eyes that had grown dim in one vain quest.
Thank God for this; her woman’s faith remainedSteadfast, unshaken to the very last,And with her idol undefaced, unstained,To place it in a “niche in Heaven” she passed.
But yesterday, your lightest whispered wordHad thrilled her heart, as spring’s first breath awakesThe rapture in the bosom of a birdTill winter’s silence with a song he breaks.
And I,—whose love for her was purifiedIn the fierce crucible of human pain,Had felt that I was more than satisfiedIf loss of mine had ended in her gain.
For her soul’s sustenance you only leftThe memory of a lightly plighted vow,To take one kiss from those dead lips were theft,The jewel was yours,—I claim the casket now.
Cloud-likelaces softly floatRound a dainty snow-white throat—Fastened here and flutt’ring thereWith a careless cunning care;Blue-bells, blue as summer skies are.Or her own sweet sunny eyes are,Cluster close beneath her chin,As if love—and not a pin—Kept them fondly nestling in!Gown of some transparent thing,Like a dragonfly’s clear wingFull of whispers vague and sweet,Falls in white folds to her feet.Light as moss veils drape their roses,Round her flower-like form it closes—Every graceful curve it shows us.Silken mittens soft and quaint,Of a shade æsthetic, faint,Weave a jealous network o’erTwo pink palms that I adore;And a musical mixed jangleComes from bracelet and from bangleAs it fetters each slim wrist(Made but to be clasped and kissed),With fantastic coil and twist.Hair a-ripple like ripe cornWind-kissed on a summer morn.What, you say you see the glintOf a reaper’s blue scythe in’t?Nay, ’tis but a silver arrowWand’ring through a golden furrow,Where the sun-shafts bore and burrow.Like a bright plumed bird is she,From the home-nest just set free;Knowing neither grief nor wrong,In her heart and lips a song.’Tis not I would wish to make herPrim and drab-gown’d like a Quaker!All fair things are beauty’s dower—Doth not God’s hand paint the flower?(Youth is but a fleeting hour!)
Cloud-likelaces softly floatRound a dainty snow-white throat—Fastened here and flutt’ring thereWith a careless cunning care;Blue-bells, blue as summer skies are.Or her own sweet sunny eyes are,Cluster close beneath her chin,As if love—and not a pin—Kept them fondly nestling in!Gown of some transparent thing,Like a dragonfly’s clear wingFull of whispers vague and sweet,Falls in white folds to her feet.Light as moss veils drape their roses,Round her flower-like form it closes—Every graceful curve it shows us.Silken mittens soft and quaint,Of a shade æsthetic, faint,Weave a jealous network o’erTwo pink palms that I adore;And a musical mixed jangleComes from bracelet and from bangleAs it fetters each slim wrist(Made but to be clasped and kissed),With fantastic coil and twist.Hair a-ripple like ripe cornWind-kissed on a summer morn.What, you say you see the glintOf a reaper’s blue scythe in’t?Nay, ’tis but a silver arrowWand’ring through a golden furrow,Where the sun-shafts bore and burrow.Like a bright plumed bird is she,From the home-nest just set free;Knowing neither grief nor wrong,In her heart and lips a song.’Tis not I would wish to make herPrim and drab-gown’d like a Quaker!All fair things are beauty’s dower—Doth not God’s hand paint the flower?(Youth is but a fleeting hour!)
Cloud-likelaces softly floatRound a dainty snow-white throat—Fastened here and flutt’ring thereWith a careless cunning care;Blue-bells, blue as summer skies are.Or her own sweet sunny eyes are,Cluster close beneath her chin,As if love—and not a pin—Kept them fondly nestling in!
Gown of some transparent thing,Like a dragonfly’s clear wingFull of whispers vague and sweet,Falls in white folds to her feet.Light as moss veils drape their roses,Round her flower-like form it closes—Every graceful curve it shows us.
Silken mittens soft and quaint,Of a shade æsthetic, faint,Weave a jealous network o’erTwo pink palms that I adore;And a musical mixed jangleComes from bracelet and from bangleAs it fetters each slim wrist(Made but to be clasped and kissed),With fantastic coil and twist.
Hair a-ripple like ripe cornWind-kissed on a summer morn.What, you say you see the glintOf a reaper’s blue scythe in’t?Nay, ’tis but a silver arrowWand’ring through a golden furrow,Where the sun-shafts bore and burrow.
Like a bright plumed bird is she,From the home-nest just set free;Knowing neither grief nor wrong,In her heart and lips a song.’Tis not I would wish to make herPrim and drab-gown’d like a Quaker!All fair things are beauty’s dower—Doth not God’s hand paint the flower?(Youth is but a fleeting hour!)
OhI have wealth, and could have placedUpon your head a golden crown,But Nature, having had my taste,And being first, has set one down.I could have given you rubies rare,And sapphires of a heavenly hue,And pearls all shimmering soft and fair;But here she’s been before me too.For ruby lips to you she’s given,And strung two pearly rows between,And sapphire eyes more blue than heavenShe’s dowered you with, my queen, my queen!I needs must be content to layMy heart’s best treasures at your feet:Without love’s gem, which shines for aye,The fairest crown were incomplete.
OhI have wealth, and could have placedUpon your head a golden crown,But Nature, having had my taste,And being first, has set one down.I could have given you rubies rare,And sapphires of a heavenly hue,And pearls all shimmering soft and fair;But here she’s been before me too.For ruby lips to you she’s given,And strung two pearly rows between,And sapphire eyes more blue than heavenShe’s dowered you with, my queen, my queen!I needs must be content to layMy heart’s best treasures at your feet:Without love’s gem, which shines for aye,The fairest crown were incomplete.
OhI have wealth, and could have placedUpon your head a golden crown,But Nature, having had my taste,And being first, has set one down.
I could have given you rubies rare,And sapphires of a heavenly hue,And pearls all shimmering soft and fair;But here she’s been before me too.
For ruby lips to you she’s given,And strung two pearly rows between,And sapphire eyes more blue than heavenShe’s dowered you with, my queen, my queen!
I needs must be content to layMy heart’s best treasures at your feet:Without love’s gem, which shines for aye,The fairest crown were incomplete.
Whenthou art near no other face I see,Thy voice is all the music I can hear;My heart’s desire is granted unto meWhen thou art near.When thou art near I am content, nay more,I’m blest in breathing the same atmosphere.To higher heights my aspirations soarWhen thou art near.When thou art near, though yet I dare not layMy lips on those I hold so very dear,I know that heaven is not so far awayWhen thou art near.
Whenthou art near no other face I see,Thy voice is all the music I can hear;My heart’s desire is granted unto meWhen thou art near.When thou art near I am content, nay more,I’m blest in breathing the same atmosphere.To higher heights my aspirations soarWhen thou art near.When thou art near, though yet I dare not layMy lips on those I hold so very dear,I know that heaven is not so far awayWhen thou art near.
Whenthou art near no other face I see,Thy voice is all the music I can hear;My heart’s desire is granted unto meWhen thou art near.
When thou art near I am content, nay more,I’m blest in breathing the same atmosphere.To higher heights my aspirations soarWhen thou art near.
When thou art near, though yet I dare not layMy lips on those I hold so very dear,I know that heaven is not so far awayWhen thou art near.
A sadnesslingers round her lips,A shadow ever haunts her eyes;Like dusky pools are they on whichThe mystery of the moonlight lies.Her voice is sweet, but grave in tone,No ring hath it of joyous mirth;Yet somehow when she speaks, methinksA benediction falls on earth.A sense of rest her presence brings,She moves with such a quiet grace;And ’tis the pitying soul withinMakes tender twilight of her face.Methinks the Virgin-mother mustHave looked like this when to her breastThe Babe, who was to save a world,With mingled joy and pain she pressed.
A sadnesslingers round her lips,A shadow ever haunts her eyes;Like dusky pools are they on whichThe mystery of the moonlight lies.Her voice is sweet, but grave in tone,No ring hath it of joyous mirth;Yet somehow when she speaks, methinksA benediction falls on earth.A sense of rest her presence brings,She moves with such a quiet grace;And ’tis the pitying soul withinMakes tender twilight of her face.Methinks the Virgin-mother mustHave looked like this when to her breastThe Babe, who was to save a world,With mingled joy and pain she pressed.
A sadnesslingers round her lips,A shadow ever haunts her eyes;Like dusky pools are they on whichThe mystery of the moonlight lies.
Her voice is sweet, but grave in tone,No ring hath it of joyous mirth;Yet somehow when she speaks, methinksA benediction falls on earth.
A sense of rest her presence brings,She moves with such a quiet grace;And ’tis the pitying soul withinMakes tender twilight of her face.
Methinks the Virgin-mother mustHave looked like this when to her breastThe Babe, who was to save a world,With mingled joy and pain she pressed.
Dorothyis debonair;Little count hath she or care;All her gold is in her hair.And the freshness of the SpringRound this old world seems to clingWhen you hear her laugh or sing.On her sunny way she goes;Much she wonders—little knows,Love’s as yet a folded rose.All her smiles in dimples die;Glad is she, nor knows she why:Just to live is ecstasy!Lightly lie the chains, methinks,That have daisies for their links;Youth’s the fount where Pleasure drinks.Dorothy is debonair;Little count hath she or care,Sunshine in her heart and hair.
Dorothyis debonair;Little count hath she or care;All her gold is in her hair.And the freshness of the SpringRound this old world seems to clingWhen you hear her laugh or sing.On her sunny way she goes;Much she wonders—little knows,Love’s as yet a folded rose.All her smiles in dimples die;Glad is she, nor knows she why:Just to live is ecstasy!Lightly lie the chains, methinks,That have daisies for their links;Youth’s the fount where Pleasure drinks.Dorothy is debonair;Little count hath she or care,Sunshine in her heart and hair.
Dorothyis debonair;Little count hath she or care;All her gold is in her hair.
And the freshness of the SpringRound this old world seems to clingWhen you hear her laugh or sing.
On her sunny way she goes;Much she wonders—little knows,Love’s as yet a folded rose.
All her smiles in dimples die;Glad is she, nor knows she why:Just to live is ecstasy!
Lightly lie the chains, methinks,That have daisies for their links;Youth’s the fount where Pleasure drinks.
Dorothy is debonair;Little count hath she or care,Sunshine in her heart and hair.
Oh, wild is the daffodils’ danceTo the tune that the March pipes blow,Heads a-tossing—lances crossing,Curtsies sweeping and low.Like waves in a flaming sunsetThey tumble, and twist, and turn,What tho’ from its slender pillarDroppeth one golden urn?Short-lived is their joy and reckless,Never a pause for breath.Ah, well!—arewetoo not whirlingAs blind, in our “dance of death”?
Oh, wild is the daffodils’ danceTo the tune that the March pipes blow,Heads a-tossing—lances crossing,Curtsies sweeping and low.Like waves in a flaming sunsetThey tumble, and twist, and turn,What tho’ from its slender pillarDroppeth one golden urn?Short-lived is their joy and reckless,Never a pause for breath.Ah, well!—arewetoo not whirlingAs blind, in our “dance of death”?
Oh, wild is the daffodils’ danceTo the tune that the March pipes blow,Heads a-tossing—lances crossing,Curtsies sweeping and low.
Like waves in a flaming sunsetThey tumble, and twist, and turn,What tho’ from its slender pillarDroppeth one golden urn?
Short-lived is their joy and reckless,Never a pause for breath.Ah, well!—arewetoo not whirlingAs blind, in our “dance of death”?
Whenbaby buds begin to shootThen hey! the blackbird’s golden flute;All steeped in love seems every noteLet loose from his mellifluous throat.No wild rhapsodic bursts proclaimWhat rapture thrills his tiny frame,His heart is like a brimming cup,Where pearls of joy keep bubbling up.The lark like some delirious thingAt heaven’s far gate may soar and sing,But oh, methinks the blackbird bringsHeaven down to earth what time he sings!
Whenbaby buds begin to shootThen hey! the blackbird’s golden flute;All steeped in love seems every noteLet loose from his mellifluous throat.No wild rhapsodic bursts proclaimWhat rapture thrills his tiny frame,His heart is like a brimming cup,Where pearls of joy keep bubbling up.The lark like some delirious thingAt heaven’s far gate may soar and sing,But oh, methinks the blackbird bringsHeaven down to earth what time he sings!
Whenbaby buds begin to shootThen hey! the blackbird’s golden flute;All steeped in love seems every noteLet loose from his mellifluous throat.
No wild rhapsodic bursts proclaimWhat rapture thrills his tiny frame,His heart is like a brimming cup,Where pearls of joy keep bubbling up.
The lark like some delirious thingAt heaven’s far gate may soar and sing,But oh, methinks the blackbird bringsHeaven down to earth what time he sings!
Hervoice is hushed, her hands are still,I, from the summit of the hill,Look down, and marvel at God’s will.Her foot was planted at the baseAll eager for the upward race,Her genius shining in her face.She felt the soul within her leap,She yearned to scale the steepest steep,And now—she’s fallen upon sleep!God knoweth best!—I must descendThe downward slope. Good-bye, sweet friend,Life’s myriad ways meet in the end.
Hervoice is hushed, her hands are still,I, from the summit of the hill,Look down, and marvel at God’s will.Her foot was planted at the baseAll eager for the upward race,Her genius shining in her face.She felt the soul within her leap,She yearned to scale the steepest steep,And now—she’s fallen upon sleep!God knoweth best!—I must descendThe downward slope. Good-bye, sweet friend,Life’s myriad ways meet in the end.
Hervoice is hushed, her hands are still,I, from the summit of the hill,Look down, and marvel at God’s will.
Her foot was planted at the baseAll eager for the upward race,Her genius shining in her face.
She felt the soul within her leap,She yearned to scale the steepest steep,And now—she’s fallen upon sleep!
God knoweth best!—I must descendThe downward slope. Good-bye, sweet friend,Life’s myriad ways meet in the end.
Whenoor wee Elspeth’s in the hooseI scarce hae use for hauns or feet—An’ after a’, whyshouldI fashWhen she’s sae nimble an’ sae fleet?“I wonner whaur I laid my specs!”The words hae haurdly left ma moothAfore I fin’, across my nose,She has them set astride forsooth.She threeds ma needle, winds ma woo’,Picks up the steeks that whileswilldrap—She slips aboot like some wee mooseFor fear she’ll wauke me frae ma nap.Her wee three-leggit stool ye’ll ayeFin’ drawn up close tae granny’s chair;She learns her task an’ sews her seam,An’ sups her cog o’ parritch there.An’ mony’s the lang crack we twa hae;But whiles, sic puzzlin’ things she’ll spier,The verra Meenister himsel’Waud be dumbfounded could he hear.Shehasher bit camsterie turns,But just eneuch tae show that sheIs no a being that is madeO’ diff’rent clay tae you an’ me.But that she’s no by-ord’nar weanThe neebors roon aboot agree,And sae ye ken it is na justMaainopeenion that I gie.
Whenoor wee Elspeth’s in the hooseI scarce hae use for hauns or feet—An’ after a’, whyshouldI fashWhen she’s sae nimble an’ sae fleet?“I wonner whaur I laid my specs!”The words hae haurdly left ma moothAfore I fin’, across my nose,She has them set astride forsooth.She threeds ma needle, winds ma woo’,Picks up the steeks that whileswilldrap—She slips aboot like some wee mooseFor fear she’ll wauke me frae ma nap.Her wee three-leggit stool ye’ll ayeFin’ drawn up close tae granny’s chair;She learns her task an’ sews her seam,An’ sups her cog o’ parritch there.An’ mony’s the lang crack we twa hae;But whiles, sic puzzlin’ things she’ll spier,The verra Meenister himsel’Waud be dumbfounded could he hear.Shehasher bit camsterie turns,But just eneuch tae show that sheIs no a being that is madeO’ diff’rent clay tae you an’ me.But that she’s no by-ord’nar weanThe neebors roon aboot agree,And sae ye ken it is na justMaainopeenion that I gie.
Whenoor wee Elspeth’s in the hooseI scarce hae use for hauns or feet—An’ after a’, whyshouldI fashWhen she’s sae nimble an’ sae fleet?
“I wonner whaur I laid my specs!”The words hae haurdly left ma moothAfore I fin’, across my nose,She has them set astride forsooth.
She threeds ma needle, winds ma woo’,Picks up the steeks that whileswilldrap—She slips aboot like some wee mooseFor fear she’ll wauke me frae ma nap.
Her wee three-leggit stool ye’ll ayeFin’ drawn up close tae granny’s chair;She learns her task an’ sews her seam,An’ sups her cog o’ parritch there.
An’ mony’s the lang crack we twa hae;But whiles, sic puzzlin’ things she’ll spier,The verra Meenister himsel’Waud be dumbfounded could he hear.
Shehasher bit camsterie turns,But just eneuch tae show that sheIs no a being that is madeO’ diff’rent clay tae you an’ me.
But that she’s no by-ord’nar weanThe neebors roon aboot agree,And sae ye ken it is na justMaainopeenion that I gie.
Whenyou did leave me, love,The whole world seem’d with you to ebb away,And like a broken stranded wreck I lay.But you returned; and lo!A fresh tide thrill’d my life’s deserted shore;And Love was conqueror over Death once more.
Whenyou did leave me, love,The whole world seem’d with you to ebb away,And like a broken stranded wreck I lay.But you returned; and lo!A fresh tide thrill’d my life’s deserted shore;And Love was conqueror over Death once more.
Whenyou did leave me, love,The whole world seem’d with you to ebb away,And like a broken stranded wreck I lay.
But you returned; and lo!A fresh tide thrill’d my life’s deserted shore;And Love was conqueror over Death once more.
’Twas June, the roses were reigningIn regalest splendour and pride.Sweet peas, like butterflies tethered,Were flutt’ring on every side.Like smouldering fires the wallflowersBurned dull in the sun’s strong glow,And the yellow bees, like meteors,Went flashing to and fro.No lordly pleasaunce was it,But an old-world garden wild,Where purple-hooded pansiesAnd long-lashed daisies smiled.And there in June we parted;And the sad years hurtle byLike birds whose wings are brokenWhen they just have learned to fly.And I think,—Do you rememberIn the life that’s yours to-day,That garden and its glamour,And the time thatwould notstay!Oh, amid the faces around you,Does one face never ariseAnd for a moment hold youWith the old spell of its eyes?Ah no! You men forget us,And we!—we must be dumb.And life’s June goes for everAnd the snows of winter come.
’Twas June, the roses were reigningIn regalest splendour and pride.Sweet peas, like butterflies tethered,Were flutt’ring on every side.Like smouldering fires the wallflowersBurned dull in the sun’s strong glow,And the yellow bees, like meteors,Went flashing to and fro.No lordly pleasaunce was it,But an old-world garden wild,Where purple-hooded pansiesAnd long-lashed daisies smiled.And there in June we parted;And the sad years hurtle byLike birds whose wings are brokenWhen they just have learned to fly.And I think,—Do you rememberIn the life that’s yours to-day,That garden and its glamour,And the time thatwould notstay!Oh, amid the faces around you,Does one face never ariseAnd for a moment hold youWith the old spell of its eyes?Ah no! You men forget us,And we!—we must be dumb.And life’s June goes for everAnd the snows of winter come.
’Twas June, the roses were reigningIn regalest splendour and pride.Sweet peas, like butterflies tethered,Were flutt’ring on every side.
Like smouldering fires the wallflowersBurned dull in the sun’s strong glow,And the yellow bees, like meteors,Went flashing to and fro.
No lordly pleasaunce was it,But an old-world garden wild,Where purple-hooded pansiesAnd long-lashed daisies smiled.
And there in June we parted;And the sad years hurtle byLike birds whose wings are brokenWhen they just have learned to fly.
And I think,—Do you rememberIn the life that’s yours to-day,That garden and its glamour,And the time thatwould notstay!
Oh, amid the faces around you,Does one face never ariseAnd for a moment hold youWith the old spell of its eyes?
Ah no! You men forget us,And we!—we must be dumb.And life’s June goes for everAnd the snows of winter come.
Ina little broken flower-potHigh up on a window-sill,’Mid grime and gloom and squalor,Grew a golden daffodil.It seem’d in the gloom of the alleyLike a sunbeam that had strayedOut from the light of heavenInto a land of shade.And close in a cage beside itA skylark sweetly sangTill all the narrow alleyWith its wild rapture rang.And one poor weary sinnerPaused, as her wild eyes turnedTo where, on its humble altar,The flower-flame upward burned.And something stirred in her bosom;’Twas the heart that had long lain dead,As the bird’s song rose from its prisonIn the shadow overhead.God’s angels are birds and flowers,And oh! methinks they preachAt times with a power and pathosWe men can never reach.
Ina little broken flower-potHigh up on a window-sill,’Mid grime and gloom and squalor,Grew a golden daffodil.It seem’d in the gloom of the alleyLike a sunbeam that had strayedOut from the light of heavenInto a land of shade.And close in a cage beside itA skylark sweetly sangTill all the narrow alleyWith its wild rapture rang.And one poor weary sinnerPaused, as her wild eyes turnedTo where, on its humble altar,The flower-flame upward burned.And something stirred in her bosom;’Twas the heart that had long lain dead,As the bird’s song rose from its prisonIn the shadow overhead.God’s angels are birds and flowers,And oh! methinks they preachAt times with a power and pathosWe men can never reach.
Ina little broken flower-potHigh up on a window-sill,’Mid grime and gloom and squalor,Grew a golden daffodil.
It seem’d in the gloom of the alleyLike a sunbeam that had strayedOut from the light of heavenInto a land of shade.
And close in a cage beside itA skylark sweetly sangTill all the narrow alleyWith its wild rapture rang.
And one poor weary sinnerPaused, as her wild eyes turnedTo where, on its humble altar,The flower-flame upward burned.
And something stirred in her bosom;’Twas the heart that had long lain dead,As the bird’s song rose from its prisonIn the shadow overhead.
God’s angels are birds and flowers,And oh! methinks they preachAt times with a power and pathosWe men can never reach.
Upthe gable the roses creep,Eager to get a little peepBehind the curtain of snowy laceThat hangs, like a bridal veil, over the faceOf a shy wee window, whose panes glint throughA network of creepers, like eyes of blue.I needs must stand below, below,And see them high and higher goTill their lips are kissing the lattice sill,And their tendrils toy at their own sweet willWith the casement, so full of tender charmsSincehershadow has lain within its arms.
Upthe gable the roses creep,Eager to get a little peepBehind the curtain of snowy laceThat hangs, like a bridal veil, over the faceOf a shy wee window, whose panes glint throughA network of creepers, like eyes of blue.I needs must stand below, below,And see them high and higher goTill their lips are kissing the lattice sill,And their tendrils toy at their own sweet willWith the casement, so full of tender charmsSincehershadow has lain within its arms.
Upthe gable the roses creep,Eager to get a little peepBehind the curtain of snowy laceThat hangs, like a bridal veil, over the faceOf a shy wee window, whose panes glint throughA network of creepers, like eyes of blue.
I needs must stand below, below,And see them high and higher goTill their lips are kissing the lattice sill,And their tendrils toy at their own sweet willWith the casement, so full of tender charmsSincehershadow has lain within its arms.
Thismorn upon the birken treeThe mavis carolled blithe and free;But—ah, his song was not for me!Each wild note of his glad refrainPierced like an arrow thro’ my brain;I could have cursed him for his strain.I saw the sunshine and the flowers,Each proof of a Creator’s powers;Yet dull and hateful were the hours.I cannot weep—the fever driesThe tears within my burning eyes—The past before my vision flies.Once more I feel his deep-drawn kiss;Once more my being thrills with bliss;Once more I melt with tenderness.I hear the trembling words that hungDeep fraught with passion on his tongue,Till heart and soul with pain are wrung.All nature smiles—and yet to-dayIn memory’s grave I’ve laid awayMy idol that has turned to clay.
Thismorn upon the birken treeThe mavis carolled blithe and free;But—ah, his song was not for me!Each wild note of his glad refrainPierced like an arrow thro’ my brain;I could have cursed him for his strain.I saw the sunshine and the flowers,Each proof of a Creator’s powers;Yet dull and hateful were the hours.I cannot weep—the fever driesThe tears within my burning eyes—The past before my vision flies.Once more I feel his deep-drawn kiss;Once more my being thrills with bliss;Once more I melt with tenderness.I hear the trembling words that hungDeep fraught with passion on his tongue,Till heart and soul with pain are wrung.All nature smiles—and yet to-dayIn memory’s grave I’ve laid awayMy idol that has turned to clay.
Thismorn upon the birken treeThe mavis carolled blithe and free;But—ah, his song was not for me!
Each wild note of his glad refrainPierced like an arrow thro’ my brain;I could have cursed him for his strain.
I saw the sunshine and the flowers,Each proof of a Creator’s powers;Yet dull and hateful were the hours.
I cannot weep—the fever driesThe tears within my burning eyes—The past before my vision flies.
Once more I feel his deep-drawn kiss;Once more my being thrills with bliss;Once more I melt with tenderness.
I hear the trembling words that hungDeep fraught with passion on his tongue,Till heart and soul with pain are wrung.
All nature smiles—and yet to-dayIn memory’s grave I’ve laid awayMy idol that has turned to clay.
Handin hand through the flow’ry waysWent Dora and I in the bygone days;A wee girl she, her boy lover I,Ready to fight for her and die.Hand in hand through this vale of tearsWent Dora and I in the after-years;She was my wife and her husband IReady to fight for her and die.Hand in hand to the very lastAs her dear eyes dimmed, and her spirit passed;An angel is she,—alone am IReady, O, God! and Icannotdie.
Handin hand through the flow’ry waysWent Dora and I in the bygone days;A wee girl she, her boy lover I,Ready to fight for her and die.Hand in hand through this vale of tearsWent Dora and I in the after-years;She was my wife and her husband IReady to fight for her and die.Hand in hand to the very lastAs her dear eyes dimmed, and her spirit passed;An angel is she,—alone am IReady, O, God! and Icannotdie.
Handin hand through the flow’ry waysWent Dora and I in the bygone days;A wee girl she, her boy lover I,Ready to fight for her and die.
Hand in hand through this vale of tearsWent Dora and I in the after-years;She was my wife and her husband IReady to fight for her and die.
Hand in hand to the very lastAs her dear eyes dimmed, and her spirit passed;An angel is she,—alone am IReady, O, God! and Icannotdie.
Ofall God’s precious promisesThe sweetest and the bestIs, that to weary laden onesWho come, He givethrest.’Tis not of glad HosannasAnd streets of shining goldWe think so much when we are sickAnd sorrowful and old.Ah! there are times we feel too sadTo contemplate the joy,The great and glorious themes of heavenThat angel-minds employ.And weak, and worn, and weary,We long to lay us down,Feeling we scarce could bear the weightOf e’en a glory-crown.That He is “very man,” I needNone other proof than this,—That He has “rest” for those who feelAlmost too tired for bliss.
Ofall God’s precious promisesThe sweetest and the bestIs, that to weary laden onesWho come, He givethrest.’Tis not of glad HosannasAnd streets of shining goldWe think so much when we are sickAnd sorrowful and old.Ah! there are times we feel too sadTo contemplate the joy,The great and glorious themes of heavenThat angel-minds employ.And weak, and worn, and weary,We long to lay us down,Feeling we scarce could bear the weightOf e’en a glory-crown.That He is “very man,” I needNone other proof than this,—That He has “rest” for those who feelAlmost too tired for bliss.
Ofall God’s precious promisesThe sweetest and the bestIs, that to weary laden onesWho come, He givethrest.
’Tis not of glad HosannasAnd streets of shining goldWe think so much when we are sickAnd sorrowful and old.
Ah! there are times we feel too sadTo contemplate the joy,The great and glorious themes of heavenThat angel-minds employ.
And weak, and worn, and weary,We long to lay us down,Feeling we scarce could bear the weightOf e’en a glory-crown.
That He is “very man,” I needNone other proof than this,—That He has “rest” for those who feelAlmost too tired for bliss.
Sweetavalanches of scented snowBury one deep, as I lie belowThe laden white boughs abloom and ablowIn the dear old orchard, where long agoMy grand-dame dreamed, as I’m dreaming now,With love in her heart and youth on her brow.O, blossom-time passes too soon, too soon!And grey night follows the golden noon,And Autumn though ruddy brings ruin and rune,And passion ne’er warms the cold heart of the moon.So let me dream on, ’mid the apple-blooms sweet,For noontide and bloomtide are fair as they’re fleet.And then when the blue of the sky is o’ercast,And Summer is ended, and harvest is past,And the loosened leaves earthward are fluttering fast,And the sleep that is dreamless is mine at last,O, make my grave here; and lay me to restWhere the sweet-scented snow shall fall light on my breast.
Sweetavalanches of scented snowBury one deep, as I lie belowThe laden white boughs abloom and ablowIn the dear old orchard, where long agoMy grand-dame dreamed, as I’m dreaming now,With love in her heart and youth on her brow.O, blossom-time passes too soon, too soon!And grey night follows the golden noon,And Autumn though ruddy brings ruin and rune,And passion ne’er warms the cold heart of the moon.So let me dream on, ’mid the apple-blooms sweet,For noontide and bloomtide are fair as they’re fleet.And then when the blue of the sky is o’ercast,And Summer is ended, and harvest is past,And the loosened leaves earthward are fluttering fast,And the sleep that is dreamless is mine at last,O, make my grave here; and lay me to restWhere the sweet-scented snow shall fall light on my breast.
Sweetavalanches of scented snowBury one deep, as I lie belowThe laden white boughs abloom and ablowIn the dear old orchard, where long agoMy grand-dame dreamed, as I’m dreaming now,With love in her heart and youth on her brow.
O, blossom-time passes too soon, too soon!And grey night follows the golden noon,And Autumn though ruddy brings ruin and rune,And passion ne’er warms the cold heart of the moon.So let me dream on, ’mid the apple-blooms sweet,For noontide and bloomtide are fair as they’re fleet.
And then when the blue of the sky is o’ercast,And Summer is ended, and harvest is past,And the loosened leaves earthward are fluttering fast,And the sleep that is dreamless is mine at last,O, make my grave here; and lay me to restWhere the sweet-scented snow shall fall light on my breast.
I think, as the white sails come and go,Of the welcomes loud, and the farewells low;Of the meeting lips, and the parting tears,Of the new-born hopes, and the growing fears,Of the eyes that glow, and the cheeks that pale,As the hazy horizon’s mystic veilIs silently parted, and to and froThe white sails come and the white sails go.And a grey mist gathers, and all grows dimAs I watch alone by the ocean’s rim.For a dream is mine—ah me! ah me!That salt withtearsis the salt salt sea.O, yearning eyes and outstretched hands!O, divided lives, and divided lands!As long as the waters ebb and flowShall the white sails come and the white sails go.
I think, as the white sails come and go,Of the welcomes loud, and the farewells low;Of the meeting lips, and the parting tears,Of the new-born hopes, and the growing fears,Of the eyes that glow, and the cheeks that pale,As the hazy horizon’s mystic veilIs silently parted, and to and froThe white sails come and the white sails go.And a grey mist gathers, and all grows dimAs I watch alone by the ocean’s rim.For a dream is mine—ah me! ah me!That salt withtearsis the salt salt sea.O, yearning eyes and outstretched hands!O, divided lives, and divided lands!As long as the waters ebb and flowShall the white sails come and the white sails go.
I think, as the white sails come and go,Of the welcomes loud, and the farewells low;Of the meeting lips, and the parting tears,Of the new-born hopes, and the growing fears,Of the eyes that glow, and the cheeks that pale,As the hazy horizon’s mystic veilIs silently parted, and to and froThe white sails come and the white sails go.
And a grey mist gathers, and all grows dimAs I watch alone by the ocean’s rim.For a dream is mine—ah me! ah me!That salt withtearsis the salt salt sea.O, yearning eyes and outstretched hands!O, divided lives, and divided lands!As long as the waters ebb and flowShall the white sails come and the white sails go.
“It might have been,” is the sad refrainThat forever haunts my weary brain,Till heart and soul grow weak with pain.“It might have been,” are the words I hearIn the curlew’s cry from the lonely mere;In the whisper of leaves when woods are sere.“It might have been,” says the sea’s long moan,As if a breaking heart of its ownWailed out in that strange low undertone.“It might have been.” Ah, the hungry cryAs the leaden years crawl slowly by!It will ring through my life till I die, I die.
“It might have been,” is the sad refrainThat forever haunts my weary brain,Till heart and soul grow weak with pain.“It might have been,” are the words I hearIn the curlew’s cry from the lonely mere;In the whisper of leaves when woods are sere.“It might have been,” says the sea’s long moan,As if a breaking heart of its ownWailed out in that strange low undertone.“It might have been.” Ah, the hungry cryAs the leaden years crawl slowly by!It will ring through my life till I die, I die.
“It might have been,” is the sad refrainThat forever haunts my weary brain,Till heart and soul grow weak with pain.
“It might have been,” are the words I hearIn the curlew’s cry from the lonely mere;In the whisper of leaves when woods are sere.
“It might have been,” says the sea’s long moan,As if a breaking heart of its ownWailed out in that strange low undertone.
“It might have been.” Ah, the hungry cryAs the leaden years crawl slowly by!It will ring through my life till I die, I die.