I do not want your hot-house flowers,
They're like the love you give—
A something tame and passionless
That breaths but does not live.
You take my hand as though you feared
Your clasp were over-bold,
Your kiss falls light at flake of snow,
And just as calm and cold.
I'd rather have your hatred
Than this lifeless loving claim,
If your heart beat one throb faster
At mention of my name.
Leave me, and bind those soulless leaves
A calmer brow above;
I cannot wear your flowers to-night—
I do not want your love.
RAIN.
Drop! drop! drop!
With a ceaseless patter fall,
With a sobbing sound on the sodden ground,
And the gray clouds over all.
Dost weep of the parted summer,
O, spirit of the rain?
For the vanished hours and the faded flowers
That never can come again?
The farmer smiles at they weeping,
Hushing the whispering leaves,
And dreams of days in the Autumn haze
And the gathered golden sheaves.
There's a voice of hope, a promise,
In the sound of thy refrain,
And as bright the hours and as fair the flowers
That will come to thee again.
And yet in our lives, though knowing
That we hold a scepter's sway,
How oft we turn with the thoughts that burn,
To weep on Autumn day.
Turn from the hopeful future
To weep in grief and pain,
For the vanished hours and the faded flowers
That never can come again.