She loves me still! and yet, were Death to say,
“Choose now between them!” you would be her choice.
God meant it to be so—it is His way.
But can you wonder if, while I rejoice
In her content, this thought hurts like a knife—
“No longer necessary to her life!”
My pleasure in her joy is bitter sweet.
Your very goodness sometimes hurts my heart,
Because, for her, life’s drama seems complete
Without the mother’s oft-repeated part.
Be patient with me! She was mine so long
Who now is yours. One must indeed be strong,
To meet the loss without the least regret.
And so, forgive me, if my eyes are wet.
AN OLD FAN.
(TO KITTY. HER REVERIE.)
IT is soiled and quite passe,
Broken too, and out of fashion,
But it stirs my heart some way,
As I hold it here to-day,
With a dead year’s grace and passion.
Oh, my pretty fan!
Precious dream and thrilling strain,
Rise up from that vanished season;
Back to heart and nerve and brain
Sweeps the joy as keen as pain,
Joy that asks no cause or reason.
Oh, my dainty fan!
Hopes that perished in a night
Gaze at me like spectral faces;
Grim despair and lost delight,
Sorrow long since gone from sight—
All are hiding in these laces.
Oh, my broken fan!
Let us lay the thing away—
I am sadder now and older;
Fled the ball-room and the play—
You have had your foolish day,
And the night and life are colder.
Exit—little fan!