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But I would come away

To dwell with you, my dear;
Through unknown worlds to stray, —

Or sleep; nor hope, nor fear,
Nor dream beneath the clay
Of all our days that were.

PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.

THE OLD STORY
My heart is chill'd and my pulse is slow,
But often and often will memory go,
Like a blind child lost in a waste of snow,
Back to the days when I loved you so —

The beautiful long ago.
I sit here dreaming them through and through,
The blissful moments I shared with you —
The sweet, sweet days when our love was new,
When I was trustful and you were true —

Beautiful days, but few !
Blest or wretched, fetter'd or free,
Why should I care how your life may be,
Or whether you wander by land or sea ?
I only know you are dead to me,

Ever and hopelessly.
Oh, how often at day's decline
I push'd from my window the curtaining vine,
To see from your lattice the lamp-light shine -
Type of a message that, half divine,

Flash'd from your heart to mine.
Once more the starlight is silvering all ;
The roses sleep by the garden wall;
The night bird warbles his madrigal,
And I hear again through the sweet air fall

The evening bugle call.
But summers will vanish and years will wane,
And bring no light to your window pane ;
No gracious sunshine nor patient rain
Can bring dead love back to life again :

I call up the past in vain.
My heart is heavy, my heart is old,
And that proves dross which I counted gold;
I watch no longer your curtain's fold;
The window is dark and the night is cold,

And the story forever told.
ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN (FLORENCE PERCY).

SHE IS NOT FAIR TO OUTWARD VIEW

She is not fair to outward view,

As many maidens be;
Her loveliness I never knew,

Until she smiled on me.
Oh, then I saw her eye was bright,
A well of love, a spring of light.

But now her looks are coy and cold,

To mine they ne'er reply;
And yet I cease not to behold

The love-light in her eye :
Her very frowns are fairer far
Than smiles of other maidens are.

HARTLEY COLERIDGE.

WE PARTED IN SILENCE
We parted in silence, we parted by night,

On the banks of that lonely river;
Where the fragrant limes their boughs unite,

We met — and we parted forever!
The night-bird sung, and the stars above

Told many a touching story,
Of friends long pass'd to the kingdom of love,

Where the soul wears its mantle of glory.

We parted in silence - our cheeks were wet

With the tears that were past controlling; We vow'd we would never, no, never forget,

And those vows at the time were consoling;
But those lips that echo'd the sounds of mine

Are as cold as that lonely river;
And that eye, that beautiful spirit's shrine,

Has shrouded its fires forever.

And now on the midnight sky I look,

And my heart grows full of weeping;
Each star is to me a sealed book,

Some tale of that loved one keeping.
We parted in silence — we parted in tears,

On the banks of that lonely river ;
But the odor and bloom of those bygone years
Shall hang o'er its waters forever.

JULIA CRAWFORD. THE WHITE BIRDS I WOULD that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam

of the sea : We tire of the flame of the meteor, before it can pass by and flee; And the flame of the blue star of twilight, hung low on the rim

of the sky, Has awaked in our hearts, my beloved, a sadness that never may

die. A weariness comes from those dreamers, dew-dabbled, the lily

and rose, Ah, dream not of them, my beloved, the flame of the meteor

that goes, Or the flame of the blue star that lingers hung low in the fall of

the dew : For I would we were changed to white birds on the white foam —

I and you. I am haunted by numberless islands, and many a Danaan shore, Where Time would surely forget us, and sorrow come near us

no more : Soon far from the rose and the lily, the fret of the flames, would

we be, Were we only white birds, my beloved, buoy'd out on the foam of the sea.

WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS.

EVENING SONG
LOOK off, dear Love, across the sallow sands,

And mark yon meeting of the sun and sea :
How long they kiss in sight of all the lands —

Ah ! longer, longer we.
Now in the sea's red vintage melts the sun,

As Egypt's pearl dissolved in rosy wine,
And Cleopatra night drinks all. 'Í is done.

Love, lay thine hand in mine.
Come forth, sweet stars, and comfort heaven's heart;

Glimmer, ye waves, round else unlighted sands.
O Night! divorce our sun and sky apart, -

Never our lips, our hands. SIDNEY LANIER.

0, SAW YE THE LASS ?
O, saw ye the lass wi' the bonnie blue een ?
Her smile is the sweetest that ever was seen,
Her cheek like the rose is, but fresher, I ween ;
She's the loveliest lassie that trips on the green.
The home of my love is below in the valley,
Where wild-flowers welcome the wandering bee;

But the sweetest of flowers in that spot that is seen
Is the maid that I love wi’ the bonny blue een.
When night overshadows her cot in the glen,
She 'll steal out to meet her loved Donald again;
And when the moon shines on the valley so green,
I'll welcome the lass wi’ the bonny blue een.
As the dove that has wander'd away from his nest
Returns to the mate his fond heart loves the best,
I'll fly from the world's false and vanishing scene,
To my dear one, the lass wi' the bonny blue een.

RICHARD RYAN.

SERENADE

[FOR Music]
THE western wind is blowing fair

Across the dark Ægean sea,
And at the secret marble stair

My Tyrian galley waits for thee.
Come down ! the purple sail is spread,

The watchman sleeps within the town ;
O leave thy lily-flower'd bed,

O Lady mine, come down, come down !
She will not come, I know her well,

Of lover's vows she hath no care,
And little good a man can tell

Of one so cruel and so fair.
True love is but a woman's toy,

They never know the lover's pain,
And I, who loved as loves a boy,

Must love in vain, must love in vain.
O noble pilot, tell me true,

Is that the sheen of golden hair ?
Or is it but the tangled dew

That binds the passion-flowers there?
Good sailor, come and tell me now,

Is that my lady's lily hand ?
Or is it but the gleaming prow,

Or is it but the silver sand ?
No! no ! 't is not the tangled dew,

'T is not the silver-fretted sand,
It is my own dear Lady true

With golden hair and lily hand !
O noble pilot, steer for Troy!
Good sailor, ply the laboring oar !

This is the Queen of life and joy

Whom we must bear from Grecian shore !
The waning sky grows faint and blue;

It wants an hour still of day;
Aboard ! aboard ! my gallant crew,

O Lady mine, away! away!
O noble pilot, steer for Troy !

Good sailor, ply the laboring oar !
O loved as only loves a boy!
O loved forever, evermore !

OSCAR WILDE.

LOVE SCORNS DEGREES
LOVE scorns degrees; the low he lifteth high,
The high he draweth down to that fair plain
Whereon, in his divine equality,
Two loving hearts may meet, nor meet in vain;
'Gainst such sweet levelling Custom cries amain,
But o'er its harshest utterance one bland sigh,
Breathed passion-wise, doth mount victorious still,
For Love, earth's lord, must have his lordly will.
PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE (The Mountain of the Lovers).

A SONG OF KRISHNA
I KNOW where Krishna tarries in these early days of spring,
When every wind from warm Malay brings fragrance on its wing;
Brings fragrance stolen far away from thickets of the clove,
In jungles where the bees hum and the Koil flutes her love ;
He dances with the dancers, of a merry morrice one,
All in the budding spring-time, for 't is sad to be alone.
I know how Krishna passes these hours of blue and gold,
When parted lovers sigh to meet and greet and closely hold
Hand fast in hand, and every branch upon the Vakul-tree
Droops downward with a hundred blooms, in every bloom a bee ;
He is dancing with the dancers to a laughter-moving tone,
In the soft awakening spring-time, when 't is hard to live alone.
Where Kroona-flowers, that open at a lover's lightest tread,
Break, and, for shame at what they hear, from white blush modest

red, And all the spears on all the boughs of all the Ketuk-glades Seem ready darts to pierce the hearts of wandering youths and

maids; 'T is there thy Krishna dances till the merry drum is done, All in the sunny spring time, when who can live alone ?

EDWIN ARNOLD (The Indian Song of Songs).

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