The lamps are out in the street, and the air grows bright;
Come, lest the miracle fade in the broad, bare light,
The new world wither away:
Clear is your voice in my heart, and you call me—whence?
Come—for I listen, I wait,—bid me rise, go hence,
Or ever the dawn turn day.
Graham R. Tomson.
LOVE, THE GUEST.
I DID not dream that Love would stay,
I deemed him but a passing guest,
Yet here he lingers many a day.
I said, “Young Love will flee with May,
And leave forlorn the hearth he blest;”
I did not dream that Love would stay.
My envious neighbour mocks me, “Nay,
Love lies not long in any nest;”
Yet here he lingers many a day.
And though I did his will alway,
And gave him even of my best,
I did not dream that Love would stay.
I have no skill to bid him stay,
Of tripping tongue or cunning jest,
Yet here he lingers many a day.
Beneath his ivory feet I lay
Pale plumage of the ringdove’s breast;
I did not dream that Love would stay.
Will Love be flown? I ofttimes say,
Home turning for the noonday rest;
Yet here he lingers many a day.
His gold curls gleam, his lips are gay,
His eyes through tears smile loveliest;
I did not dream that Love would stay.