Eurydice Rose o' the World, they have words galore, Rose o' the World, the pain you give Rose o' the World, what man would wed Rose o' the World, they may talk their fill, 891 EURYDICE HE came to call me back from death I hear him yet with trembling breath Oh! all my heart went out to him, With happy tears my eyes were dim; I come, for thou art all to me. I followed through the cavern black; I saw the blue above. Some terror turned me to look back: I heard him wail, “O love! What hast thou done! What hast thou done!" And then I saw no more the sun, And lost were life and love. Francis William Bourdillon [1852 A WOMAN'S THOUGHT I AM a woman- —therefore I may not Call to him, cry to him, Fly to him, Bid him delay not! Then when he comes to me, I must sit quiet: Still as a stone All silent and cold. If my heart riot— Crush and defy it! Should I grow bold, Say one dear thing to him, All my life fling to him, What to atone Is enough for my sinning! Not as a lover At last if he part from me, In myself fold me, Lest he discover; She has loved and been loved so often That she tires of the worn-out rapture, No joys or sorrows move her, Clothed in her scarlet splendor, Eternally sad and fair, Longing for joys she knows not, Daughter of foam and fire. Louise Chandler Moulton [1835-1908] ADONAIS SHALL we meet no more, my love, at the binding of the sheaves, In the happy harvest-fields, as the sun sinks low, When the orchard paths are dim with the drift of fallen leaves, And the reapers sing together, in the mellow, misty eves: O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow! Love met us in the orchard, ere the corn had gathered plume, O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow! Sweet as summer days that die when the months are in the bloom, And the peaks are ripe with sunset, like the tassels of the broom, In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low. Sweet as summer days that die, leafing sweeter cach to each, O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow! All the heart was full of feeling: love had ripened into speech, Like the sap that turns to nectar in the velvet of the peach, In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low. Sweet as summer days that die at the ripening of the corn,— When the musty orchard breathes like a mellow drinking horn, Over happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low. Face to Face 895 Love left us at the dying of the mellow autumn eves,- And the reapers kiss and part, at the binding of the sheaves, Then the reapers gather home, from the gray and misty meres; O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow! Then the reapers gather home, and they bear upon their spears, One whose face is like the moon, fallen gray among the spheres, With the daylight's curse upon it, as the sun sinks low. Faint as far-off bugles blowing, soft and low the reapers sung; O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow! Sweet as summer in the blood, when the heart is ripe and young, Love is sweetest in the dying, like the sheaves he lies among, In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low. William Wallace Harney [1831 FACE TO FACE If my face could only promise that its color would remain; If my heart were only certain it would hide the moment's pain; I would meet you and would greet you in the old familiar tone, And naught should ever show you the wrong that you have done. If my trembling hand were steady, if my smiles had not all fled; If my eyes spoke not so plainly of the tears they often shed; I would meet you and would greet you at the old trysting place, And perchance you'd deem me happy if you met me face to face. |