Visions.
The white stars gleamed in the jessamine bush,
And the bright stars up in the sky,
And Gilfillan stood at the garden-gate,
And so at the gate stood I.
The apple-boughs bent as we lingered there,
And showered their rosy rain—
Is it all that shall fall in that pleasant path,
If we meet at the gate again?
O Gilfillan gay! why seek away
From lady-love, kith, and kin
The world's Well-done, or 'neath foreign sun
The golden spurs to win?
O womanly heart! be still, be still!
It is threescore years to-day—
And thou canst throb with this wild, wild tide,
And I all withered and gray!
And Gilfillan's bones 'neath the kirk-yard stones
Of a foreign and far-off land—
No preacher so loud of the coffin and shroud,
And the house that is built on sand!
Oh! a rare, rare castle of human hope
We builded aloft in our pride!
And, oh! woe betide so weary a dream;
For my lover is by my side.
We have known no partings, no weary years,
We have known no days of sorrow;
For I am but seventeen to-day,
And we shall be married to-morrow!