[TRUE LOVE]
I think true love is something like a tree;
The oak, that lifts its branches to the sky.
The woodman's axe may strike it fatally,
Or it may fall, when mighty winds sweep by.
And where it grew, the flowers may bloom instead,
And all may seem as though the tree were dead.
But underneath the grass, and flowers, there lies,
Hid from the gaping world, a tiny root,
A little living germ, that never dies;
And ever and anon its branches shoot
Up through the earth, and mock, and strive to be
The mighty forest king--the parent tree.
So love may wither, at the hand of Fate,
Or fall beneath the killing winds that blow;
And other loves may spring up, soon or late,
And flowers of forgetfulness may grow,
Over the spot where love once grew instead,
And we may think the old-time passion dead.
And still the little germ lies in the heart,
So closely hidden that it is not known;
And ever and anon its branches start--
Vain mimics of the passion that has flown.
Though love, once slain, can live not, as of yore,
I think its ghost will haunt us evermore.
1871
[HIS SONG]
A poet wandered the city street,
With tattered garments, and aching feet;
Want and hunger had dimmed his eye,
And the children jeered him, as he passed by.
But one of the children sang, at play,
A song his mother had sung that day.
The poet listened, with cheeks aflame,
For the song was his own, and this was fame!
But his heart was lightened. The song of the boy
Had thrilled the strings, with a strange, sweet joy.
"Though I may lie with the nameless dead,
The songs I have written will live," he said.