THE PARTING HOUR.
NOT yet, dear love, not yet: the sun is high;
You said last night, “At sunset I will go.”
Come to the garden, where, when blossoms die,
No word is spoken; it is better so:
Ah! bitter word, “Farewell.”
Hark how the birds sing sunny songs of spring!
Soon they will build, and work will silence them;
So we grow less light-hearted as years bring
Life’s grave responsibilities—and then
The bitter word “Farewell.”
The violets fret to fragrance ’neath your feet,
Heaven’s gold sunlight dreams aslant your hair:
No flower for me! your mouth is far more sweet.
Oh, let my lips forget, while lingering there,
Love’s bitter word “Farewell.”
. . . . . . . . . .
Sunset already! have we sat so long?
The parting hour, and so much left unsaid!
The garden has grown silent—void of song,
Our sorrow shakes us with a sudden dread!
Ah! bitter word “Farewell.”
Olive Custance.
THE SUNDIAL.
’Tis an old dial, dark with many a stain;
In summer crowned with drifting orchard-bloom,
Tricked in the autumn with the yellow rain,
And white in winter like a marble tomb;
And round about its gray, time-eaten brow
Lean letters speak—a worn and shattered row;
I am a Shade: a Shadow too arte thou:
I marke the Time: saye, Gossip, dost thou soe?
Here would the ringdoves linger, head to head;
And here the snail a silver course would run,
Beating old Time; and here the peacock spread
His gold-green glory, shutting out the sun.
The tardy shade moved forward to the noon;
Betwixt the paths a dainty Beauty stept,
That swung a flower, and, smiling, hummed a tune,—
Before whose feet a barking spaniel leapt.