When hearts are trumps Part 2

The Shroud.

The snow came softly, silently, down Into the streets of the dark old town; And lo! by the wind it was swept and piled On the sleeping form of a beggar-child.

It kissed her cheek, and it filled her hair With crystals that looked like diamonds there; And she dreamed that she was a fair young bride In a pure white dress by her husband's side.

A blush crept over her pale young face, And her thin lips smiled with a girlish grace; But the old storm-king made his boast aloud That his work that night was weaving a shroud.

Love's Return.

Love has come back--ah me, the joy!-- Greater than when Love began To wound my heart. The jocund boy!

Love has come back a gray-haired man.

His eyes are red with tears of woe, His cheeks are pale, and his heart is sore; But Love has come back at last, and, oh!

Love will be faithful evermore.

One Wish.

My thoughts are gliding down the stream, Ah, faster than the river flows; And idly in my heart I dream Of islands where the lotus grows.

I fear not rapids, waterfall, Or whirlpool leading down to death, If love but my tired heart enthrall, And I may sip a woman's breath.

I care not what may be my fate.

Roll on, mad river, to the sea; Drown all ambition, pride, and hate,-- But leave one woman's love to me.

For Me.

I heard her song, Low in the night, From out her cas.e.m.e.nt steal away, Nor thought it wrong To steal a sight Of her--and lo! she knelt to pray.

I heard her say, "Forgive him, Lord; Such as he seems he cannot be."

I turned away, Myself abhorred.

She prayed--and oh! she prayed for me.

To a Water-color.

Sweet Phyllis, maid of yesterday, Come down from out that frame, And tell me why you looked so gay-- Likewise your other name.

Had bold Sir Plume confessed his love And asked you if you'd wed?

And had he called you "Lovey-dove"?

And how long are you dead?

Where did you get that wondrous gown, Those patches, and that hair?

And how were things in London town The last time you were there?

And did you die a maid or wife, Your husband lord or knave?

And how did you like this jolly life?

And how do you like the grave?

The Serenade.

Under my cas.e.m.e.nt, as I pray, My lover sings my cares away With many a half-forgotten lay.

He leans against the linden-tree, And sings old songs of Arcady That he knows well are loved by me.

Half through the night the sweet strains float Like wind-blown rose-leaves, note by note, Over the great wall and the moat,

Up to my window, till they teem Into my soul, and almost seem To be there even when I dream.

And his heart trembling beats with bliss If I but throw him one small kiss Just as I now throw this, and this

To the Rose in her hair.

Poor little rose, I pity you-- Sweet as Oporto's wind when fruity-- Tortured an evil hour or two, Just to adorn a wilful beauty.

I know her well, too well, alas!

(Just watch the fairy as she dances.) She wears my heart--but let that pa.s.s; It's dead: she killed it with her glances.

Your fate, poor rose, is such as mine,-- To be despised when you are faded; Yet she's an angel--too divine To be by you or me upbraided.

Her Reverie.

A lady combed her silken hair.

None but a looking-gla.s.s would dare To gaze on such a scene.

The blushes thronged her dimpled cheek; They coursed upon her shoulders, eke, And the white neck between.