Were I a king,—which isn't
To be considered now,—
A diadem had glistened
Upon that lovely brow.
Had fame with laurels crowned me,—
She hasn't, up to date,—
Nor time nor change had found me
To love and thee ingrate.
If Death threw down his gage, Love,
Though life is dear to me,
I'd die, e'en of old age, Love,
To win a smile from thee.
But being poor, we part, dear,
And love, sweet love, must die;
Thou wilt not break thy heart, dear,
No more, I think, shall I!
James Jeffrey Roche [1847-1908]
DON'T
Your eyes were made for laughter:
Sorrow befits them not;
Would you be blithe hereafter,
Avoid the lover's lot.
The rose and lily blended
Possess your cheeks so fair;
Care never was intended
To leave his furrows there.
Your heart was not created
To fret itself away,
By being unduly mated
To common human clay.