TO MISS ——.
Upon that radiant brow of thine
May love and truth forever shine,
Like stars that light the welkin dome
And tint the billowy ocean’s foam.
Upon life’s desert, wild and broad,
Oh may’st thou walk that peaceful road
Which leads us on to heaven above
Where all is joy and peace and love.
Around thy soul so pure and white
May Heaven shed celestial light,
Life’s ocean wild to guide thee o’er,
And waft thee to its golden shore.
[Written in youth one July in a hay-field, on a piece of paper that had contained my dinner, with an axle-grease box for my table, while lazily reclining under the wagon in the shade of the willows.]
SHUT YOUR EYES AND GO TO SLEEP.
A KYRIELLE.
Dear, your heart is tired to-night,
And the waning watches creep;
All too soon the morn will come,—
Shut your eyes and go to sleep.
While the stars in heaven dream
And the angels vigils keep,
Lay your head upon my arm,
Shut your eyes and go to sleep.
Yes, I know that fevered care
Trembles on your troubled lip;
Dreams of love will heal the heart,—
Shut your eyes and go to sleep.
Let your heart forget to pain,
And your eyes forget to weep;
Dream of home, and hope, and love,
Shut your eyes and go to sleep.
Heavy drags the wounded hour
Over Sorrow’s restless deep,
Heaving up the tide of tears,—
Shut your eyes and go to sleep.
Oh the heaving, stifling sigh
Through the night its pain will keep
For the pillow waking prest,—
Shut your eyes and go to sleep.
With a touch like woman’s own,
Touch of Love’s own finger-tip,
I will smooth your throbbing brow,—
Shut your eyes and go to sleep.
Gently I will soothe your heart
And still your restless pulse’s leap;
Lay your head upon my arm,
Shut your eyes and go to sleep.
BROWNING.
(BY W. A. BACK, FARMER.)
Browning may be a right smart of a poet,
Some thinks him so;
But if he is he’s not anxious to show it,
’R else I don’t know.
Give me a singer of songs ’at sings ’em
With lots of soul;
Whose tweedle-um-twangles whenever he twings ’em
Jist fill you full.
I caint endoor of a poet ’at dribbles
His honey in straw,
An’ hate none the less the blame ijit that scribbles
In styles all raw.
Make your own poem an’ label it “Browning”:
The sum an’ gross;
Tho’ nothin’s in his weedy rankness,—Stop frownin’!
Take ’nother dose!
My advice, you say?—Let Browning go pipin’
In an ivy leaf;
Don’t hold his sack like a fool a-snipin’,
This life’s too brief.