THE MORN
She cometh like the sweet reprieving morn,
Clad in her flowing robes of golden light;
God’s angel of the day to clear the sight
Of him condemned long years, and left forlorn,
Deep in the dungeon of his loveless life,
With every yearning for a love supreme—
Love shining only in a cruel dream!
And now his love appears to end the strife.
Oh, love, thou gentle messenger, bend down,
Thy touch is soothing and thy smile is kind;
Speak to this sorrowing heart and bid its fears
Be gone forevermore. When as thy crown
Appears at dawn, and night flies on the wind,
So banish all my sorrows and their tears.
THE GARDEN MADE FOR ME
My love and I a garden made—
So early in the spring,
When larks begin to sing—
Frail violets a carpet laid,
Of tender blues, for my sweet maid,
When we were gardening.
I did not see the garden grow—
Fate turned me far astray,
Ere summer’s happy ray
The garden kissed, and all the glow
Of fragrant hours I did not know—
My summer’s days were grey.
I did not pick sweet blooms for her,
To make a crown to grace
Her head, and bonny face;
I wandered in a world so bare,
No flower of love perfumed the air,
No blossoms could I trace.
Some lovers sow, some lovers reap,
And others never see
The gardens that might be;
Still, though I might not reap, I keep,
In dreams of her, the mem’ry deep
Of gardens made for me.
TO A REPEATER
Tell me truly, quaint repeater,
When will she permit me greet her?
Tell me when you sweetly chime—
Name the day, and strike the time.