Part 4 (1/2)

See him quake and see him tremble, See him gasp for breath.

Nay, dear, he does not dissemble, This is really Death.

He is weak, and worn, and wasted, Bear him to his bier.

All there is of life he's tasted-- He has lived a year.

He has pa.s.sed his day of glory, All his blood is cold, He is wrinkled, thin, and h.o.a.ry, He is very old.

Just a leaf's life in the wild wood, Is a love's life, dear.

He has reached his second childhood When he's lived a year.

Long ago he lost his reason, Lost his trust and faith-- Better far in his first season Had he met with death.

Let us have no pomp or splendour, No vain pretence here.

As we bury, grave, yet tender, Love that's lived a year.

All his strength and all his pa.s.sion, All his pride and truth, These were wasted, spendthrift fas.h.i.+on, In his fiery youth.

Since for him life holds no beauty Let us shed no tear, As we do the last sad duty-- Love has lived a year.

INCOMPLETE

The summer is just in its grandest prime, The earth is green and the skies are blue; But where is the lilt of the olden time, When life was a melody set to rhyme, And dreams were so real they all seemed true?

There is sun on the meadow, and blooms on the bushes, And never a bird but is mad with glee; But the pulse that bounds, and the blood that rushes, And the hope that soars, and the joy that gushes, Are lost for ever to you and me.

There are dawns of amber and amethyst; There are purple mountains, and pale pink seas That flush to crimson where skies have kist; But out of life there is something missed-- Something better than all of these.

We miss the faces we used to know, The smiling lips and the eyes of truth.

We miss the beauty and warmth and glow Of the love that brightened our long ago, And ah! we miss our youth.

ON RAINY DAYS

On rainy days old dreams arise, From graves where they have lonely lain; With wan white cheeks and mournful eyes, They press against the window pane.

One dream is bolder than the rest: She enters at the door and stays, A welcome yet unbidden guest On rainy days.

On rainy days, my dream and I Turn back the hands of memory's books: We sup on pleasures long gone by-- We drink of unforgotten brooks; We ransack garrets of the Past, We sing old songs, we play old plays; While hurrying Time looks on aghast, On rainy days.

On rainy days, my ghostly dreams Come clothed in garments like the mist, But through that vapoury veiling, gleams The l.u.s.trous eyes my lips have kissed.

A radiant head leans on my heart, We walk in well-remembered ways; But oh! the sorrow when we part, On rainy days.