Volume Ii Part 121 (1/2)

LOVE'S ROSARY

All day I tell my rosary For now my love's away: To-morrow he shall come to me About the break of day; A rosary of twenty hours, And then a rose of May; A rosary of fettered flowers, And then a holy-day.

All day I tell my rosary, My rosary of hours: And here's a flower of memory, And here's a hope of flowers, And here's an hour that yearns with pain For old forgotten years, An hour of loss, an hour of gain, And then a shower of tears.

All day I tell my rosary, Because my love's away; And never a whisper comes to me, And never a word to say; But, if it's parting more endears, G.o.d bring him back, I pray; Or my heart will break in the darkness Before the break of day.

All day I tell my rosary, My rosary of hours, Until an hour shall bring to me The hope of all the flowers...

I tell my rosary of hours, For O, my love's away; And--a dream may bring him back to me About the break of day.

Alfred Noyes [1880-

WHEN SHE COMES HOME

When she comes home again! A thousand ways I fas.h.i.+on, to myself, the tenderness Of my glad welcome: I shall tremble--yes; And touch her, as when first in the old days I touched her girlish hand, nor dared upraise Mine eyes, such was my faint heart's sweet distress Then silence: and the perfume of her dress: The room will sway a little, and a haze Cloy eyesight--soul-sight, even--for a s.p.a.ce; And tears--yes; and the ache here in the throat, To know that I so ill deserve the place Her arms make for me; and the sobbing note I stay with kisses, ere the tearful face Again is hidden in the old embrace.

James Whitcomb Riley [1849-1916]

THE TRAGEDY OF LOVE

SONG

My silks and fine array, My smiles and languished air, By Love are driven away; And mournful lean Despair Brings me yew to deck my grave: Such end true lovers have.

His face is fair as heaven When springing buds unfold: O why to him was't given, Whose heart is wintry cold?

His breast is Love's all-wors.h.i.+pped tomb, Where all Love's pilgrims come.

Bring me an ax and spade, Bring me a winding-sheet; When I my grave have made, Let winds and tempests beat: Then down I'll lie, as cold as clay: True love doth pa.s.s away!

William Blake [1757-1827]

THE FLIGHT OF LOVE

When the lamp is shattered The light in the dust lies dead-- When the cloud is scattered, The rainbow's glory is shed.

When the lute is broken, Sweet tones are remembered not; When the lips have spoken, Loved accents are soon forgot.

As music and splendor Survive not the lamp and the lute, The heart's echoes render No song when the spirit is mute-- No song but sad dirges, Like the wind through a ruined cell, Or the mournful surges That ring the dead seaman's knell.