I loved, and was loved. But a word was said
In thoughtless jest, and the work was done.
The hopes I had cherished, lay blasted, dead--
My rival pleaded his suit, and won.
And their child--ah me! is fair to see;
I wonder if she's as good and wise,
As sweet and kind, and pure of mind
As the one who bequeathed her those beautiful eyes.
She has her father's step, and air.
Her father's brow, and his pale, dark cheek.
And her father's tawny, curling hair.
And her father's mouth, half sweet, half weak.
All very true.
And "she's like her father through and through,"
I said when we met on the street that day,
"And not like her mother in any way."
Then I caught my breath with a start of surprise,
(That she did not see)
For the child of my rival glanced up at me
With her mother's beautiful eyes.
1871
[OLD TIMES]
Friend of my youth, let us talk of old times;
Of the long-lost golden hours.
When "Winter" meant only Christmas chimes,
And "Summer" wreaths of flowers.
Life has grown old, and cold, my friend,
And the winter now, means death.
And summer blossoms speak all too plain
Of the dear, dead forms beneath.
But let us talk of the past to-night;
And live it over again,
We will put the long years out of sight.
And dream we are young as then.
But you must not look at me, my friend,
And I must not look at you,
Or the furrowed brows, and silvered locks,
Will prove our dream untrue.
Let us sing of the summer, too sweet to last.
And yet too sweet to die.
Let us read tales, from the book of the past,
And talk of the days gone by.
We will turn our backs to the West, my friend,
And forget we are growing old.
The skies of the Present are dull, and gray,
But the Past's are blue, and gold.
The sun has passed over the noontide line
And is sinking down the West.
And of friends we knew in days Lang Syne,
Full half have gone to rest.
And the few that are left on earth, my friend
Are scattered far, and wide.
But you and I will talk of the days
Ere any roamed, or died.
Auburn ringlets, and hazel eyes--
Blue eyes and tresses of gold.
Winds joy laden, and azure skies,
Belong to those days of old.
We will leave the Present's shores awhile
And float on the Past's smooth sea.
But I must not look at you, my friend,
And you must not look at me.
1871