"Perhaps these times are better,
Though I cannot think them so,
But I am a poor old woman.
And not supposed to know."
And grandmother finished her musings
With a meaning shake of the head
Over nineteenth century folly.
And sighed, and went to bed.
1872
[LOVE'S EXTRAVAGANCE]
Could I but measure my strength, by my love,
Were I as strong, as my heart's love is true,
I would pull down the stars, from the heavens above,
And weave them all into a garland for you.
And brighter, and better, your jewels should be
Than any proud queen's, that e'r dwelt o'er the sea.
Ay! richer and rarer, your gems, love, should be
Than any rare jewels that come from the sea.
I would gather the beautiful, delicate green
From the dress of the spring--with the heaven's soft blue,
And never from east land, to west land were seen
Such wonderful robes, as I'd fashion for you.
And I'd snatch the bright rays of the sun in my hand
And braid you a girdle, love, strand over strand.
Ay! one by one, catch the bright rays in my hand
And braid them, and twine them, all strand over strand.
I would gather the amber, the red and gold dyes,
That glimmer and glow, in the autumn sunset,
And weave you a mantle; and pull from the skies
The rainbow to trim it. Ah Love! never yet
Was any proud princess, from east to the west
So peerlessly jeweled--so royally drest.
Never daughter of princes, in east land or west,
So decked in rare jewels, so gorgeously drest.
And I'd make you a vail, from the rare golden haze,
Than Indian Summer spreads over the lea.
And trim it with dew! Queens should envy and praise
Your matchless apparel, ah darling, but see--
My strength is unequal to what I would do!
I have only this little low cottage, for you.
Nay! I can not accomplish the thing I would do,
And I've only this cot and a warm heart for you.
1870
[YOU WILL FORGET ME]
You will forget me: the years are so tender--
They bind up the wounds which we think are so deep;
This dream of our youth will fade out as the splendor
Fades from the sky, when the sun sinks to sleep:
The clouds of forgetfulness, over and over,
Will banish the last rosy colors away;
And th' fingers of Time will weave garlands to cover
The scar which you think is a life-mark to-day.