The Home Book of Verse Volume Ii Part 147

Heap not the heavy marble o'er my head To shut away the sunshine and the dew; Let small blooms grow there, and let gra.s.ses wave, And raindrops filter through.

Thou wilt meet many fairer and more gay Than I; but, trust me, thou canst never find One who will love and serve thee night and day With a more single mind.

Forget me when I die! The violets Above my breast will blossom just as blue, Nor miss thy tears; e'en nature's self forgets; But while I live, be true.

Elizabeth Akers [1832-1911]

FLORENCE VANE

I loved thee long and dearly, Florence Vane; My life's bright dream and early Hath come again; I renew in my fond vision, My heart's dear pain-- My hopes, and thy derision, Florence Vane.

The ruin, lone and h.o.a.ry, The ruin old, Where thou didst hark my story, At even told-- That spot--the hues Elysian Of sky and plain-- I treasure in my vision, Florence Vane.

Thou wast lovelier than the roses In their prime; Thy voice excelled the closes Of sweetest rhyme; Thy heart was as a river Without a main.

Would I had loved thee never, Florence Vane!

But, fairest, coldest wonder!

Thy glorious clay Lieth the green sod under-- Alas, the day!

And it boots not to remember Thy disdain, To quicken love's pale ember, Florence Vane.

The lilies of the valley By young graves weep; The daisies love to dally Where maidens sleep.

May their bloom, in beauty vying, Never wane Where thine earthly part is lying, Florence Vane!

Philip Pendleton Cooke [1816-1850]

"IF SPIRITS WALK"

If spirits walk, love, when the night climbs slow The slant footpath where we were wont to go, Be sure that I shall take the selfsame way To the hill-crest, and sh.o.r.eward, down the gray, Sheer, graveled slope, where vetches straggling grow.

Look for me not when gusts of winter blow, When at thy pane beat hands of sleet and snow; I would not come thy dear eyes to affray, If spirits walk.

But when, in June, the pines are whispering low, And when their breath plays with thy bright hair so As some one's fingers once were used to play-- That hour when birds leave song, and children pray, Keep the old tryst, sweetheart, and thou shalt know If spirits walk.

Sophie Jewett [1861-1909]

REQUIESCAT

Tread lightly, she is near, Under the snow; Speak gently, she can hear The daisies grow.

All her bright golden hair Tarnished with rust, She that was young and fair Fallen to dust.

Lily-like, white as snow, She hardly knew She was a woman, so Sweetly she grew.

Coffin-board, heavy stone, Lie on her breast; I vex my heart alone, She is at rest.

Peace, peace; she cannot hear Lyre or sonnet; All my life's buried here-- Heap earth upon it.

Oscar Wilde [1856-1900]

LYRIC Ah, dans ces mornes sejours Les jamais sont les toujours.--Paul Verlaine

You would have understood me, had you waited; I could have loved you, dear! as well as he; Had we not been impatient, dear! and fated Always to disagree.

What is the use of speech? Silence were fitter: Lest we should still be wishing things unsaid.

Though all the words we ever spake were bitter, Shall I reproach you dead?

Nay, let this earth, your portion, likewise cover All the old anger, setting us apart: Always, in all, in truth was I your lover; Always, I held your heart.

I have met other women who were tender, As you were cold, dear! with a grace as rare.

Think you I turned to them, or made surrender, I who had found you fair?

Had we been patient, dear! ah, had you waited, I had fought death for you, better than he: But from the very first, dear! we, were fated Always to disagree.

Late, late, I come to you, now death discloses Love that in life was not to be our part: On your low-lying mound between the roses, Sadly I cast my heart.

I would not waken you: nay! this is fitter; Death and the darkness give you unto me; Here we who loved so, were so cold and bitter, Hardly can disagree.

Ernest Dowson [1867-1900]

ROMANCE

My Love dwelt in a Northern land.

A gray tower in a forest green Was hers, and far on either hand The long wash of the waves was seen, And leagues and leagues of yellow sand, The woven forest boughs between!

And through the silver Northern night The sunset slowly died away, And herds of strange deer, lily-white, Stole forth among the branches gray; About the coming of the light, They fled like ghosts before the day!

I know not if the forest green Still girdles round that castle gray; I know not if the boughs between The white deer vanish ere the day; Above my Love the gra.s.s is green, My heart is colder than the clay!

Andrew Lang [1844-1912]

GOOD-NIGHT