Go back, O spring! till pain, forsaking
These haunts of sorrow, shall sink to rest.
Go back! go back! for my heart is breaking,
And the same old anguish hurts my breast.
WHY I LOVE HER
Why do I love my sweetheart? Well
I really never tried to tell.
I love her mayhap for her smile,
So innocent and free from guile.
Perhaps I love her for her mien,
So calmly cheerful and serene;
Or it may be her silken hair,
First caught and tangled Cupid there.
And since I came to analyse;
Her chiefest beauty is her eyes.
Her mouth, too, that is Cupid’s bow—
Perhaps that’s why I love her so.
And now I think of it, her voice
First made my rusty heart rejoice
And then her hand—’tis my belief
It quite outvies the lily leaf.
Perhaps I love her for her ways
That blend in with the sunny days.
Tush—to be brief and plain with you,
I love her just because I do.
DISCONTENT
Like a thorn in the flesh, like a fly in the mesh,
Like a boat that is chained to shore,
The wild unrest of the heart in my breast
Tortures me more and more.
I wot not why, it should wail and cry
Like a child that is lost at night,
For it knew no grief, but has found relief,
And it is not touched with blight.
It has had of pleasure full many a measure;
It has thrilled with love’s red wine;
It has hope and health, and youth’s rare wealth—
Oh rich is this heart of mine.
Yet it is not glad—it is wild and mad
Like a billow before it breaks;
And its ceaseless pain is worse than vain,
Since it knows not why it aches.