All’s done with utterly,
All’s done with. Death to me
Was ever Death indeed;
To me no kindly creed
Consolatory was given.
You were of earth, not Heaven....
This dreary day, things seem
Vain shadows in a dream,
Or some strange, pictured show;
And mine own tears that flow,
My hidden tears that fall,
The vainest of them all.
June.
LAST June I saw your face three times;
Three times I touched your hand;
Now, as before, May month is o’er,
And June is in the land.
O many Junes shall come and go,
Flow’r-footed o’er the mead;
O many Junes for me, to whom
Is length of days decreed.
There shall be sunlight, scent of rose,
Warm mist of summer rain;
Only this change—I shall not look
Upon your face again.
A Reminiscence.
