The years ran on in golden sands
For lovers rapidly;
The flowers waved their magic wands
And smiled still joyously:
But love's enchanting power was gone
For me whom Death had left alone
Beneath the old Beech Tree.
The moonlight sifting through the leaves
Fell soft and silvery,
As threads that sly Arachne weaves
With artful modesty;
It fell and wove a mystic veil
About her face; my cheek grew pale
Beneath the Chestnut Tree.
A breathless moment, all was still;
A deep solemnity
Hung over earth,—and then a thrill
Of love and mystery—
An odor of a rare perfume,
The sweetest flower that e'er did bloom
Beneath the Chestnut Tree!
The brooks now run the hills among
And babble on in glee;
For love brought back the soul of song
Beneath the Chestnut Tree;—
Brought back, while moonlit breezes blew
The sweetest flower that ever grew,
Alone, alone for me.
JACK AND JILL
We played beside the little rill
That flows to larger river;
We heard the mating mocking-birds trill,
The robins piped upon the hill,
And Cupid strung his little bow and filled his little quiver:
Then she, we played, was little Jill,
And I was Jack, her lover.
But floating down the little stream
Toward the larger river,
The rippling of the waves did seem
The fading music of a dream,
For Cupid broke his silver bow and lost his golden quiver;
And Jill forgot the hour supreme
When I was Jack, her lover.