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; So, ere the darkness fall, the light be past, A little while, when light and twilight meet,- A little while I fain would linger here; Behold! who knows what soul-dividing bars 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? My old Love came and walked therein, She entered with her weary smile, She looked around a little while And shivered with the cold: Her passing touch was death to all, Her pale robe clinging to the grass That bit the grass and ground, alas! She went up slowly to the gate, She turned back at the last to wait 877 And say farewell once more. 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 bird seemed true the summer through, World! is there one good thing in you, Since lips that sang, I love thee, I think the sun's kiss will scarce fall Wild grass, have you forgot Be false or fair above me, Come back with any face, You cannot change one place- 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 A little while 'twas given To me to have thy love; Now, like a ghost, alone I move 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, But long, long years to weep in, Great grief that desolates the soul, And eternity to sleep in. 879 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; TAKE hand and part with laughter; We twain once well in sunder, Or what for love with you? Forget that I remember, And dream that I forget. Time found our tired love sleeping, |