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For me an' mine they're past an' done-
Aye, all but one-yes, all but one!

Since I kissed her 'neath Tullagh Hill
That one gerrl stays close wid me still.
Och! up to mine her face still lifts,
An' round us still the white May drifts;

An' her soft arm, in some ould way,
Is here beside me, night an' day;

But, faith, 'twas her they buried deep,
Wid all that love she couldn't keep,

Aye, deep an' cold, in Killinkere,
This many a year--this many a year!

Arthur Stringer (1874

TO DIANE

THE ruddy poppies bend and bow,
Diane! do you remember?

The sun you knew shines proudly now,
The lake still lists the breezes vow,

Your towers are fairer for their stains,
Each stone you smiled upon remains.
Sing low-where is Diane?

Diane! do you remember?

I come to find you through the years,
Diane! do you remember?

For none may rule my love's soft fears.
The ladies now are not your peers,

I seek you through your tarnished halls,
Pale sorrow on my spirit falls,

High, low-where is Diane?
Diane! do you remember?

די

I crush the poppies where I tread,

Diane! do you remember?

Your flower of life, so bright, so red→→

She does not hear-Diane is dead.

I

Her Dwelling-Place

pace the sunny bowers alone

Where naught of her remains but stone.

Sing low-where is Diane?

Diane does not remember.

Helen Hay Whitney [18

1129

"MUSIC I HEARD"

MUSIC I heard with you was more than music,
And bread I broke with you was more than bread.
Now that I am without you, all is desolate,
All that was once so beautiful is dead.

Your hands once touched this table and this silver,
And I have seen your fingers hold this glass.
These things do not remember you, beloved:
And yet your touch upon them will not pass.

For it was in my heart you moved among them,
And blessed them with your hands and with your eyes.
And in my heart they will remember always:

They knew you once, O beautiful and wise!

Conrad Aiken [1889

HER DWELLING-PLACE

AMID the fairest things that grow

My lady hath her dwelling-place;
Where runnels flow, and frail buds blow
As shy and pallid as her face.

The wild, bright creatures of the wood

About her fearless flit and spring;

To light her dusky solitude

Comes April's earliest offering.

The calm Night from her urn of rest

Pours downward an unbroken stream;

All day upon her mother's breast

My lady lieth in a dream.

Love could not chill her low, soft bed
With any sad memorial stone;

He put a red rose at her head-
A flame as fragrant as his own.

Ada Foster Murray [18

THE WIFE FROM FAIRYLAND

HER talk was all of woodland things,
Of little lives that pass

Away in one green afternoon,
Deep in the haunted grass;

For she had come from fairyland,

The morning of a day

When the world that still was April

Was turning into May.

Green leaves and silence and two eyes

'Twas so she seemed to me,

A silver shadow of the woods,
Whisper and mystery.

I looked into her woodland eyes,
And all my heart was hers,
And then I led her by the hand
Home up my marble stairs;

And all my granite and my gold
Was hers for her green eyes,
And all my sinful heart was hers
From sunset to sunrise;

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In the Fall o' Year

She loitered in magnificence

Of marble and of gold,
And waited to be home again
When the dull tale was told.

Sometimes, in the chill galleries,
Unseen, she deemed, unheard,
I found her dancing like a leaf
And singing like a bird.

So lone a thing I never saw
In lonely earth or sky,
So merry and so sad a thing,
One sad, one laughing, eye.

There came a day when on her heart
A wildwood blossom lay,
And the world that still was April
Was turning into May.

In the green eyes I saw a smile
That turned my heart to stone:
My wife that came from fairyland
No longer was alone.

For there had come a little hand
To show the green way home,

1131

Home through the leaves, home through the dew, Home through the greenwood-home.

Richard Le Gallienne [1866

IN THE FALL O' YEAR

I WENT back an old-time lane

In the fall o' year,

There was wind and bitter rain

And the leaves were sere.

Once the birds were lilting high

In a far-off May

I remember, you and I

Were as glad as they.

But the branches now are bare

And the lad you knew, Long ago was buried thereLong ago, with you!

Thomas S. Jones, Jr. [1882

THE INVISIBLE BRIDE

THE low-voiced girls that go

In gardens of the Lord,
Like flowers of the field they grow

In sisterly accord.

Their whispering feet are white

Along the leafy ways; They go in whirls of light Too beautiful for praise.

And in their band forsooth
Is one to set me free-
The one that touched my youth-
The one God gave to me.

She kindles the desire

Whereby the gods survive

The white ideal fire

That keeps my soul alive.

Now at the wondrous hour,

She leaves her star supreme,
And comes in the night's still power,
To touch me with a dream.

Sibyl of mystery

On roads beyond our ken, Softly she comes to me,

And goes to God again.

Edwin Markham [1852

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