So work, I find since you and I
May walk together nevermore,
I hold you dear enough to wish
That we might live the dead years o’er.
Good-bye my work! and straight the pain
Of having such a thing to say,
Prints coward touches on my face,
And leaves me strangely old and gray.
Somebody
SHE is plain of face, she hath little grace,
They say when they speak of me,
’Tis little I care, I am more than fair
In the eyes of somebody.
She is cold, they say, as a winter’s day,
It mattereth not to me,
For the glow and heat of my true heart’s beat
Is known unto somebody.
She holdeth in hand neither gold or land—
Ah, the dull eyes cannot see
How rich and great is my broad estate
In the heart of somebody.
My Little Maid
MY little maid, my little maid,
You grow too old, I am afraid,
Your birthday, is it? Tell me dear,
How long ago did you come here?
What? five to-day—how tall you grow!
I wish time would not hurry so,
I wish he’d just go on his way,
Nor call on us for many a-day.