Part 39 (1/2)

_No gold can buy you entrance there_; _But beggared Love may go all bare_-- _No wisdom won with weariness_; _But Love goes in with Folly's dress_-- _No fame that wit could ever win_; _But only Love may lead Love in_ _To Arcady, to Arcady_.

Ah, woe is me, through all my days Wisdom and wealth I both have got, And fame and name, and great men's praise; But Love, ah, Love! I have it not.

There was a time, when life was new-- But far away, and half forgot-- I only know her eyes were blue; But Love--I fear I knew it not.

We did not wed, for lack of gold, And she is dead, and I am old.

All things have come since then to me, Save Love, ah, Love! and Arcady.

_Ah, then I fear we part_ (quoth he), _My way's for Love and Arcady._

But you, you fare alone, like me; The gray is likewise in your hair.

What love have you to lead you there, To Arcady, to Arcady?

_Ah, no, not lonely do I fare; My true companion's Memory.

With Love he fills the Spring-time air; With Love he clothes the Winter tree.

Oh, past this poor horizon's bound My song goes straight to one who stands-- Her face all gladdening at the sound-- To lead me to the Spring-green lands, To wander with enlacing hands.

The songs within my breast that stir Are all of her, are all of her.

My maid is dead long years_ (quoth he), _She waits for me in Arcady_.

_Oh, yon's the way to Arcady, To Arcady, to Arcady; Oh, yon's the way to Arcady, Where all the leaves are merry._

_H. C. Bunner._

MY LOVE AND MY HEART

Oh, the days were ever s.h.i.+ny When I ran to meet my love; When I press'd her hand so tiny Through her tiny tiny glove.

Was I very deeply smitten?

Oh, I loved like _anything_!

But my love she is a kitten, And my heart's a ball of string.

She was pleasingly poetic, And she loved my little rhymes; For our tastes were sympathetic, In the old and happy times.

Oh, the ballads I have written, And have taught my love to sing!

But my love she is a kitten, And my heart's a ball of string.

Would she listen to my offer, On my knees I would impart A sincere and ready proffer Of my hand and of my heart.

And below her dainty mitten I would fix a wedding ring-- But my love she is a kitten, And my heart's a ball of string.

Take a warning, happy lover, From the moral that I show; Or too late you may discover What I learn'd a month ago.

We are scratch'd or we are bitten By the pets to whom we cling.

Oh, my love she is a kitten, And my heart's a ball of string.

_Henry S. Leigh._

QUITE BY CHANCE