I hear the warm rain whisper Its message soft and sweet; And the south-wind’s passionate murmur, While I lie low at thy feet!
It is not mine to approach thee; I never may kiss thy lips, Or touch the hem of thy garment With tremulous finger-tips.
Yet, O thou beautiful Rose! Queen rose, so fair and sweet, What were lover or crown to thee Without the Clay at thy feet?
AT THE LAST
Will the day ever come, I wonder, When I shall be glad to know That my hands will be folded under The next white fall of the snow? To know that when next the clover Wooeth the wandering bee, Its crimson tide will drift over All that is left of me?
Will I ever be tired of living, And be glad to go to my rest, With a cool and fragrant lily Asleep on my silent breast? Will my eyes grow weary of seeing, As the hours pass, one by one, Till I long for the hush and the darkness As I never longed for the sun?
God knoweth! Sometime, it may be, I shall smile to hear you say: “Dear heart! she will not waken At the dawn of another day!” And sometime, love, it may be, I shall whisper under my breath: “The happiest hour of my life, dear, Is this—the hour of my death!”
TO THE “BOUQUET CLUB”
O Rosebud garland of girls! Who ask for a song from me, To what sweet air shall I set my lay? What shall its key-note be? The flowers have gone from wood and hill; The rippling river lies white and still; And the birds that sang on the maple bough, Afar in the South are singing now!
O Rosebud garland of girls! If the whole glad year were May; If winds sang low in the clustering leaves, And roses bloomed alway; If youth were all that there is of life; If the years brought nothing of care or strife, Nor ever a cloud to the ether blue, It were easy to sing a song for you!