ROMANCE
Say that the days of the dark are dawning,
Say that we come to the middle years,
The workday week that hath no bright morning,
The life that is dulled of its hopes and fears—
But, the cooled blood still and the tired heart scorning,
The soul is in eyes that are dry of tears.
Quiet thy heart, since others are loving;
Still thy soul, for the sky is vast;
Rest thy limbs from the stale earth roving,
Plow in the furrow thy lot is cast:
So, when the Spring all the earth is moving,
A flower may fall to thy feet at last.
Charles the King at the block stood biding
The blow that set him at peace with man,
Weary of life, of the crowd deriding,
Worn at his lips his smile so wan—
Under the floor of the block lay hiding
Athos and Porthos and d'Artagnan!
Perhaps;—and so, while the hand still turneth,
As one's who serves, to his daily chore;
While she who once walked beside, returneth
To walk with her hand in thine no more—
Under thy heart's work-wear there burneth
The love that is hers for evermore.