ASo n gby Eugene Geary.Illustration by G. Michelson.YOUNG Love forsook the highways,All decked in their robes of Spring,And, far into silent by-ways,He fluttered on golden wing.Blithe youths and maidens chased him,“He is only tired,” they said.To a streamlet’s brink they chased him,Then sighed that Love was dead.On, on through the shining meadows,As the rays of the evening fell,He sped ’mid the length’ning shadowsTill he came to a lonely dell.The flowers, with teardrops laden,Bent their heads as he flew along,To sigh o’er the grave of a maiden—His sigh was a poet’s song.“Then sighed that Love was dead.”
by Eugene Geary.
Illustration by G. Michelson.
YOUNG Love forsook the highways,All decked in their robes of Spring,And, far into silent by-ways,He fluttered on golden wing.Blithe youths and maidens chased him,“He is only tired,” they said.To a streamlet’s brink they chased him,Then sighed that Love was dead.On, on through the shining meadows,As the rays of the evening fell,He sped ’mid the length’ning shadowsTill he came to a lonely dell.The flowers, with teardrops laden,Bent their heads as he flew along,To sigh o’er the grave of a maiden—His sigh was a poet’s song.
YOUNG Love forsook the highways,All decked in their robes of Spring,And, far into silent by-ways,He fluttered on golden wing.Blithe youths and maidens chased him,“He is only tired,” they said.To a streamlet’s brink they chased him,Then sighed that Love was dead.
Y
OUNG Love forsook the highways,
All decked in their robes of Spring,
And, far into silent by-ways,
He fluttered on golden wing.
Blithe youths and maidens chased him,
“He is only tired,” they said.
To a streamlet’s brink they chased him,
Then sighed that Love was dead.
On, on through the shining meadows,As the rays of the evening fell,He sped ’mid the length’ning shadowsTill he came to a lonely dell.The flowers, with teardrops laden,Bent their heads as he flew along,To sigh o’er the grave of a maiden—His sigh was a poet’s song.
On, on through the shining meadows,
As the rays of the evening fell,
He sped ’mid the length’ning shadows
Till he came to a lonely dell.
The flowers, with teardrops laden,
Bent their heads as he flew along,
To sigh o’er the grave of a maiden—
His sigh was a poet’s song.
“Then sighed that Love was dead.”
“Then sighed that Love was dead.”