Margery sighs with a vain regret,
As slowly they fade from gold to gray,
Till night has come, and the sun has set,
And the clouds have drifted beyond the day.
What are you dreaming, my little maid
For yours are beautiful thoughts, I know;
What were the words that the wild wind said,
And where, in the dark, did the cloud-ships go?
Come through the window and touch her hair,
Wind of the vast and starry deep!
And tell her not of this old world's care,
But kiss her softly and let her sleep.
Columbia Literary Monthly.
~Two of a Kind.~
HE:
Down in the glen
By the trysting tree,
Somebody's sister is waiting for me.
Under the stars,
In the dewy grass
Waiting for me—the poor little lass!
And I sit alone
In my cozy den,
A much better place than that clammy glen,
And I think of her tears
As she waits in vain
Till it seems almost cruel to give her such pain.
SHE:
Down in the glen
By the trysting tree,
Somebody's brother is waiting for me;
Waiting in vain,
Though it may seem cruel,
But how can I help it—the poor little fool!