While, Sweet! our eyes with tender tears are wet:

A little hour I fain would linger yet.

A little while I fain would linger yet,

All for love's sake, for love that cannot tire; Though fervid youth be dead, with youth's desire, And hope has faded to a vague regret, A little while I fain would linger yet.

A little while I fain would linger here:

Behold! who knows what strange, mysterious bars 'Twixt souls that love may rise in other stars? Nor can love deem the face of death is fair: A little while I still would linger here.

A little while I yearn to hold thee fast,

Hand locked in hand, and loyal heart to heart; (O pitying Christ! those woeful words, "We part!") So, ere the darkness fall, the light be past, A little while I fain would hold thee fast.

A little while, when light and twilight meet,-
Behind, our broken years; before, the deep
Weird wonder of the last unfathomed sleep,-
A little while I still would clasp thee, Sweet,
A little while, when night and twilight meet.

A little while I fain would linger here;

Behold! who knows what soul-dividing bars
Earth's faithful loves may part in other stars?
Nor can love deem the face of death is fair:
A little while I still would linger here.

Paul Hamilton Hayne [1830-1886]

SONG

I MADE another garden, yea,

For my new Love:

I left the dead rose where it lay

And set the new above.

Song

Why did my Summer not begin?
Why did my heart not haste?

My old Love came and walked therein,
And laid the garden waste.

She entered with her weary smile,
Just as of old;

She looked around a little while

And shivered with the cold:

Her passing touch was death to all,
Her passing look a blight;
She made the white rose-petals fall,
And turned the red rose white.

Her pale robe clinging to the grass
Seemed like a snake

That bit the grass and ground, alas!
And a sad trail did make.

She went up slowly to the gate,
And then, just as of yore,

She turned back at the last to wait

And say farewell once more.

897

Arthur O'Shaughnessy [1844-1881]

SONG

HAS summer come without the rose,

Or left the bird behind?

Is the blue changed above thee,

O world! or am I blind?

Will you change every flower that grows,

Or only change this spot, Where she who said, I love thee,

Now says, I love thee not?

The skies seemed true above thee,
The rose true on the tree;

The bird seemed true the summer through,
But all proved false to me.

World! is there one good thing in you,

Life, love, or death-or what?

Since lips that sang, I love thee,
Have said, I love thee not?

I think the sun's kiss will scarce fall
Into one flower's gold cup;
I think the bird will miss me,
And give the summer up.
O sweet place! desolate in tall

Wild grass, have you forgot
How her lips loved to kiss me,
Now that they kiss me not?

Be false or fair above me,

Come back with any face,
Summer! do I care what you do?
You cannot change one place--
The grass, the leaves, the earth, the dew,
The grave I make the spot-

Here, where she used to love me,

Here, where she loves me not.

Arthur O'Shaughnessy [1844-1881]

AFTER

A LITTLE time for laughter,

A little time to sing,

A little time to kiss and cling,

And no more kissing after.

A little while for scheming
Love's unperfected schemes;
A little time for golden dreams,
Then no more any dreaming.

A little while 'twas given

To me to have thy love;

Now, like a ghost, alone I move
About a ruined heaven..

After Summer

A little time for speaking
Things sweet to say and hear;

A time to seek, and find thee near,
Then no more any seeking.

A little time for saying

Words the heart breaks to say;

A short sharp time wherein to pray,
Then no more need of praying;

But long, long years to weep in,
And comprehend the whole

Great grief that desolates the soul,

And eternity to sleep in.

899

Philip Bourke Marston [1850-1887]

AFTER SUMMER

WE'LL not weep for summer over,

No, not we:

Strew above his head the clover,—

Let him be!

Other eyes may weep his dying,

Shed their tears

There upon him, where he's lying

With his peers.

Unto some of them he proffered

Gifts most sweet;

For our hearts a grave he offered,

Was this meet?

All our fond hopes, praying, perished

In his wrath,

All the lovely dreams we cherished

Strewed his path.

Shall we in our tombs, I wonder,

Far apart,

Sundered wide as seas can sunder

Heart from heart,

Dream at all of all the sorrows

That were ours,

Bitter nights, more bitter morrows;

Poison-flowers

Summer gathered, as in madness,

Saying, "See,

These are yours, in place of gladness,—

Gifts from me"?

Nay, the rest that will be ours

Is supreme,

And below the poppy flowers

Steals no dream.

Philip Bourke Marston [1850-1887]

ROCOCO

TAKE hand and part with laughter;
Touch lips and part with tears;
Once more and no more after,
Whatever comes with years.
We twain shall not remeasure

The ways that left us twain;
Nor crush the lees of pleasure
From sanguine grapes of pain.

We twain once well in sunder,
What will the mad gods do
For hate with me, I wonder,

Or what for love with you?
Forget them till November,
And dream there's April yet,

Forget that I remember,

And dream that I forget.

Time found our tired love sleeping,
And kissed away his breath;

But what should we do weeping,

Though light love sleep to death?