The Home Book of Verse Volume Ii Part 101

He came to call me back from death To the bright world above.

I hear him yet with trembling breath Low calling, "O sweet love!

Come back! The earth is just as fair; The flowers, the open skies are there; Come back to life and love!"

Oh! all my heart went out to him, And the sweet air above.

With happy tears my eyes were dim; I called him, "O sweet love!

I come, for thou art all to me.

Go forth, and I will follow thee, Right back to life and love!

I followed through the cavern black; I saw the blue above.

Some terror turned me to look back: I heard him wail, "O love!

What hast thou done! What hast thou done!"

And then I saw no more the sun, And lost were life and love.

Francis William Bourdillon [1852-1921]

A WOMAN'S THOUGHT

I am a woman--therefore I may not Call to him, cry to him, Fly to him, Bid him delay not!

Then when he comes to me, I must sit quiet: Still as a stone-- All silent and cold.

If my heart riot-- Crush and defy it!

Should I grow bold, Say one dear thing to him, All my life fling to him, Cling to him-- What to atone Is enough for my sinning!

This were the cost to me, This were my winning-- That he were lost to me.

Not as a lover At last if he part from me, Tearing my heart from me, Hurt beyond cure,-- Calm and demure Then must I hold me, In myself fold me, Lest he discover; Showing no sign to him By look of mine to him What he has been to me-- How my heart turns to him, Follows him, yearns to him, Prays him to love me.

Pity me, lean to me, Thou G.o.d above me!

Richard Watson Gilder [1844-1900]

LAUS VENERIS A Picture By Burne-Jones

Pallid with too much longing, White with pa.s.sion and prayer, G.o.ddess of love and beauty, She sits in the picture there,--

Sits with her dark eyes seeking Something more subtle still Than the old delights of loving Her measureless days to fill.

She has loved and been loved so often In her long, immortal years, That she tires of the worn-out rapture, Sickens of hopes and fears.

No joys or sorrows move her, Done with her ancient pride; For her head she found too heavy The crown she has cast aside.

Clothed in her scarlet splendor, Bright with her glory of hair Sad that she is not mortal,-- Eternally sad and fair,

Longing for joys she knows not, Athirst with a vain desire, There she sits in the picture, Daughter of foam and fire.

Louise Chandler Moulton [1835-1908]

ADONAIS

Shall we meet no more, my love, at the binding of the sheaves, In the happy harvest-fields, as the sun sinks low, When the orchard paths are dim with the drift of fallen leaves, And the reapers sing together, in the mellow, misty eves: O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow!

Love met us in the orchard, ere the corn had gathered plume,-- O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow!

Sweet as summer days that die when the months are in the bloom, And the peaks are ripe with sunset, like the ta.s.sels of the broom, In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low.

Sweet as summer days that die, leafing sweeter each to each,-- O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow!

All the heart was full of feeling: love had ripened into speech, Like the sap that turns to nectar in the velvet of the peach, In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low.

Sweet as summer days that die at the ripening of the corn,-- O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow!

Sweet as lovers' fickle oaths, sworn to faithless maids forsworn, When the musty orchard breathes like a mellow drinking-horn, Over happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low.

Love left us at the dying of the mellow autumn eves,-- O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow!

When the skies are ripe and fading, like the colors of the leaves, And the reapers kiss and part, at the binding of the sheaves, In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low.

Then the reapers gather home, from the gray and misty meres;-- O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow!

Then the reapers gather home, and they bear upon their spears, One whose face is like the moon, fallen gray among the spheres, With the daylight's curse upon it, as the sun sinks low.

Faint as far-off bugles blowing, soft and low the reapers sung;-- O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow!

Sweet as summer in the blood, when the heart is ripe and young, Love is sweetest in the dying, like the sheaves he lies among, In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low.

William Wallace Harney [1831-1912]

FACE TO FACE

If my face could only promise that its color would remain; If my heart were only certain it would hide the moment's pain; I would meet you and would greet you in the old familiar tone, And naught should ever show you the wrong that you have done.

If my trembling hand were steady, if my smiles had not all fled; If my eyes spoke not so plainly of the tears they often shed; I would meet you and would greet you at the old trysting place, And perchance you'd deem me happy if you met me face to face.

If the melody of Springtime awoke no wild refrain, If the Autumn's gold burthen awoke no living pain, I would meet you and would greet you, as years ago we met, Before our hearts were shipwrecked on the ocean of regret.

If my woman's soul were stronger, if my heart were not so true, I should long have ceased remembering the love I had for you; But I dare not meet or greet you, in the old familiar way, Until we meet in Heaven, where all tears have pa.s.sed away.

Frances Cochrane [18--

ASh.o.r.e