He said, ‘I wish, love, when you sing to me,
You would sing sweet, sad things—they suit your voice.’
I tossed my head, and sung light strains of glee—
Saying, ‘This song, or that, is Harold’s choice.’
But now I wear no colour—none but blue.
Low in my neck I coil my silken hair.
He does not know it, but I strive to do
Whatever in his eyes would make me fair.
I sing no songs but those he loved the best.
(Ah! well, no wonder: for the mournful strain
Is but the echo of the voice of pain,
That sings so mournfully within my breast.)
I would not wear a ribbon or a curl
For Donald, if he died from my neglect—
Oh me! how many a vain and wilful girl
Learns true love’s worth, but—when her life is wrecked.
AN EMPTY CRIB
Beside a crib that holds a baby’s stocking,
A tattered picture book, a broken toy,
A sleeping mother dreams that she is rocking
Her fair-haired cherub boy.
Upon the cradle’s side her light touch keeping,
She gently rocks it, crooning low a song;
And smiles to think her little one is sleeping,
So peacefully and long.
Step light, breathe low, break not her rapturous dreaming,
Wake not the sleeper from her trance of joy,
For never more save in sweet slumber-seeming
Will she watch o’er her boy.
God pity her when from her dream Elysian
She wakes to see the empty crib, and weep;
Knowing her joy was but a sleeper’s vision,
Tread lightly—let her sleep.