But the tie that bound our hearts, love,
In the morning’s golden haze,
Is a tie that never parts, love,
With the passing of the days.
For though Death’s arm be strong, love,
Our love its light will shed,
And like a glorious song, love,
Will live when Death is dead.
SORROW’S WAKING.
Once a maiden,
Heavy-laden,
Sought to borrow
Sleep from sorrow.
Sweet the taking,
But the waking
In the numbness
And the dumbness
Of the day-dawn,
With the grey lawn
Softly plaining
In the raining,
And the meadows
Hid in shadows,
Was more dreary
Than the weary
Mounds which sever
Hearts forever,
Where Death’s reaping
Leaves man sleeping
In God’s keeping.
ON AN OLD VENETIAN PORTRAIT.
The features loom out of the darkness
As brown as an ancient scroll,
But the eyes gleam on with the fire that shone
In the dead man’s living soul.
He is clad in a cardinal’s mantle,
And he wears the cap of state,
But his lip is curled in a sneer at the world,
And his glance is full of hate.