My true love’s name is lost to me,
The prey of dusty years,
But in the falling Rain I see
And know her by her tears!
The Happy Traveller
WHO is the monarch of the Road?
I, the happy rover!
Lord of the way which lies before
Up to the hill and over—
Owner of all beneath the blue,
On till the end, and after, too!
I am the monarch of the Road!
Mine are the keys of morning,
I know where evening keeps her store
Of stars for night’s adorning,
I know the wind’s wild will, and why
The lone thrush hurries down the sky!
I am the monarch of the Road!
My court I hold with singing,
Each bird a gay ambassador,
Each flower a censer, swinging;
And every little roadside thing
A wonder to confound a king.
I am the monarch of the Road!
I ask no leave for living;
I take no less, I seek no more
Than nature’s fullest giving—
And ever, westward with the day,
I travel to the far away!
The Dead Bride
WITHIN my circled arm she lay and faintly smiled the long night through,
And oh, but she was fair to view, fair to view!
Upon the whiteness of her robe the dew distilled, and on her veil
And on her cheek of carvéd pearl that gleamed so pale.
(How still the air is in the night, how near and kind the heavens are,
One might a naked hand outstretch and grasp a star!)