He. He cannot eat and he cannot sleep—
(Hey, but his face is a sight for to see!)
Daily he goes for to wail—for to weep—
(Hey, but he’s wretched as a youth can be!)
She. She’s very thin and she’s very pale—
(Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!)
Daily she goes for to weep—for to wail—
(Hey, but I think that little maid will die!)
Both. Now tell me pray, and tell me true,
What in the world should the poor soul do?
She. If I were the youth I should offer her my name—
(Hey, but her face is a sight for to see!)
He. If I were the maid I should fan his honest flame—
(Hey, but he’s bashful as a youth can be!)
She. If I were the youth I should speak to her to-day—
(Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!)
He. If I were the maid I should meet the lad half way—
(For I really do believe that timid youth will die!)
Both. I thank you much for your counsel true;
I’ve learnt what that poor soul ought to do!
THE MIGHTY MUST
Come mighty Must!
Inevitable Shall!
In thee I trust.
Time weaves my coronal!
Go mocking Is!
Go disappointing Was!
That I am this
Ye are the cursed cause!
Yet humble Second shall be First,
I ween;
And dead and buried be the curst
Has Been!
Oh weak Might Be!
Oh May, Might, Could, Would, Should!
How powerless ye
For evil or for good!
In every sense
Your moods I cheerless call,
Whate’er your tense
Ye are Imperfect, all!
Ye have deceived the trust I’ve shown
In ye!
Away! The Mighty Must alone
Shall be!
A MIRAGE
Were I thy bride,
Then the whole world beside
Were not too wide
To hold my wealth of love—
Were I thy bride!
Upon thy breast
My loving head would rest,
As on her nest
The tender turtle-dove—
Were I thy bride!
This heart of mine
Would be one heart with thine,
And in that shrine
Our happiness would dwell—
Were I thy bride!
And all day long
Our lives should be a song:
No grief, no wrong
Should make my heart rebel—
Were I thy bride!
The silvery flute,
The melancholy lute,
Were night-owl’s hoot
To my low-whispered coo—
Were I thy bride!
The skylark’s trill
Were but discordance shrill
To the soft thrill
Of wooing as I’d woo—
Were I thy bride!
The rose’s sigh
Were as a carrion’s cry
To lullaby
Such as I’d sing to thee—
Were I thy bride!
A feather’s press
Were leaden heaviness
To my caress.
But then, unhappily,
I’m not thy bride!