And I, I have a wreath to wear — ah, never rue nor thorn!
I sometimes think that bitter wreath could be more sweetly worn!
For mine is made of ghostly bloom, of what I can't forget —
The fallen leaves of other crowns — rose, laurel, violet!
Romance. [Scudder Middleton]
Why should we argue with the falling dust
Or tremble in the traffic of the days?
Our hearts are music-makers in the clouds,
Our feet are running on the heavenly ways.
We'll go and find the honey of romance
Within the hollow of the sacred tree.
There is a spirit in the eastern sky,
Calling along the dawn to you and me.
She'll lead us to the forest where she hides
The yellow wine that keeps the angels young —
We are the chosen lovers of the earth
For whom alone the golden comb was hung.
Good-Bye. [Norreys Jephson O'Conor]
Good-bye to tree and tower,
To meadow, stream, and hill,
Beneath the white clouds marshalled close
At the wind's will.
Good-bye to the gay garden,
With prim geraniums pied,
And spreading yew trees, old, unchanging
Tho' men have died.
Good-bye to the New Castle,
With granite walls and grey,
And rooms where faded greatness still
Lingers to-day.
To every friend in Mallow,
When I am gone afar,
These words of ancient Celtic hope,
"Peace after war."