[A MAIDEN'S SECRET.]
I have written this day down in my heart
As the sweetest day in the season;
From all of the others I've set it apart--
But I will not tell you the reason.
That is my secret--I must not tell;
But the skies are soft and tender,
And never before, I know full well,
Was the earth so full of splendor.
I sing at my labor the whole day long,
And my heart is as light as a feather;
And there is a reason for my glad song
Besides the beautiful weather.
But I will not tell it to you; and though
That thrush in the maple heard it,
And would shout it aloud if he could, I know
He hasn't the power to word it.
Up, where I was sewing, this morn came one
Who told me the sweetest stories,
He said I had stolen my hair from the sun,
And my eyes from the morning glories.
Grandmother says that I must not believe
A word men say, for they flatter;
But I'm sure he would never try to deceive
For he told me--but there--no matter!
Last night I was sad, and the world to me
Seemed a lonely and dreary dwelling,
But some one then had not asked me to be--
There now! I am almost telling.
Not another word shall my two lips say,
I will shut them fast together,
And never a mortal shall know to-day
Why my heart is as light as a feather.
[LINES FROM "MAURINE."]
It was a way of Helen's not to sing
The songs that other people sang; she took
Sometimes an extract from an olden book--
Again some floating, fragmentary thing,
And these she fitted to old melodies,
Or else composed the music. One of these
She sang that night; and Vivian caught the strain.
And joined her in the chorus or refrain:
O thou, mine other stronger part,
Whom yet I cannot hear or see,
Come thou and take this loving heart,
That longs to yield its all to thee.
I call mine own, O come to me--
Love, answer back, "I come to thee,
I come to thee!"
This hungry heart, so warm, so large
Is far too great a care for me.
I have grown weary of the charge
I keep so sacredly for thee.
Come, then, and take my heart from me--
Love, answer back, "I come to thee,
I come to thee."
I am a'weary waiting here
For one who tarries long from me.
O, art thou far, or art thou near,
And must I still be sad for thee?
Love, answer, "I am near to thee,
I am come to thee!"