O Love, A SONG IN WINTER if you were here This dreary, weary day,― If your lips, warm and dear, Found some sweet word to say,— Then hardly would seem drear But you are far away, How far from me, my dear! If you, from far away, Should come not back, my dear; If I no more might lay My hand on yours, nor hear That voice, now sad, now gay, Caress my listening ear; If you, from far away, Should come no more, my dear,— Then with what dire dismay Year joined to hostile year Would frown, if I should stay Where memories mock and jeer! But I would come away To dwell with you, my dear; Through unknown worlds to stray,— Philip Bourke Marston [1850-1887] "COME TO ME, DEAREST” COME to me, dearest, I'm lonely without thee; Swallows will flit round the desolate ruin, And thoughts of thy love and its manifold treasure, Figure that moves like a song through the even; Eyes like the skies of poor Erin, our mother, You have been glad when you knew I was gladdened; Dear, are you sad now to hear I am saddened? Song Our hearts ever answer in tune and in time, love, Come to me, dear, ere I die of my sorrow, 963 Strong, swift, and fond are the words which I speak, love, SONG 'Tis said that absence conquers love! But, oh! believe it not; I've tried, alas! its power to prove, But thou art not forgot. Lady, though fate has bid us part, I plunge into the busy crowd, And smile to hear thy name; But when I ask my heart the sound, Thy name is echoed there. And when some other name I learn, And try to whisper love, Still will my heart to thee return Like the returning dove. In vain! I never can forget, E'en as the wounded bird will seek So, lady! I would hear thee speak, I've tried, alas! its power to prove, But thou art not forgot. Frederick William Thomas [1811-1864] PARTING Too fair, I may not call thee mine: Those eyes with bridal beacons shine; Thou wilt be happy, dear! and bless Good-by, dear heart! I go to dwell Yet, Darling, keep for me— Who wander outside in the night,— One little corner of thy light. Gerald Massey [1828-1907] A Song of Autumn 965 THE PARTING HOUR Not yet, dear love, not yet: the sun is high; Ah! bitter word "Farewell." Hark! how the birds sing sunny songs of spring! The violets fret to fragrance 'neath your feet, Sunset already! have we sat so long? The parting hour, and so much left unsaid! The garden has grown silent-void of song, Our sorrow shakes us with a sudden dread! Ah! bitter word "Farewell." Olive Custance [18 A SONG OF AUTUMN ALL through the golden weather Until the autumn fell, Our lives went by together But autumn's wind uncloses The heart of all your flowers; I think, as with the roses, So hath it been with ours. |