Better to mourn a blossom snatched away
Before it reached perfection, than behold
With dry, unhappy eyes, day after day,
The fresh bloom fade, and the fair leaf decay.
Better to lose the dream, with all its gold,
Than keep it till it changes to dull grey.
HE WILL NOT COME
Take out the blossom in your hair abloom,
No more it seemeth beautiful, or bright,
And sickening is its subtly sweet perfume—
He will not come to-night.
Take off the necklace with its sparkling gem,
And rings that glow and glitter in the light,
And fling them in the case that waits for them—
He will not come to-night.
Take off the robe a little while ago
You chose, to make you fairer in his sight;
’Tis ten o’clock. So late you can but know
He will not come to-night.
He will not come. God grant you strength and grace,
For never more upon your mortal sight
Shall dawn a glimpse of that beloved face
That did not come to-night.
He will not come. And through the shadowed years,
The perfume of that blossom that you wore
Shall stir the fount of salt and bitter tears—
For one who comes no more.
WORN OUT
I saw a young heart in the grasp of pain;
With bruiséd breast, and broken, bleeding wing
Shipwrecked on hopeless love’s tempestuous main,
Lay the poor tortured thing.
It pulsed with all the anguish of despair;
It ached with all a fond heart’s awful power;
Yet I, who stood unhurt above it there,
Envied its lot that hour.