TO E.T.: 1917
You sleep too well—too far away,
For sorrowing word to soothe or wound;
Your very quiet seems to say
How longed-for a peace you have found.
Else, had not death so lured you on,
You would have grieved—'twixt joy and fear—
To know how my small loving son
Had wept for you, my dear.
APRIL MOON
Roses are sweet to smell and see,
And lilies on the stem;
But rarer, stranger buds there be,
And she was like to them.
The little moon that April brings,
More lovely shade than light,
That, setting, silvers lonely hills
Upon the verge of night—
Close to the world of my poor heart
So stole she, still and clear;
Now that she's gone, O dark, and dark,
The solitude, the fear.
THE FOOL'S SONG
Never, no never, listen too long,
To the chattering wind in the willow, the night bird's song.
'Tis sad in sooth to lie under the grass,
But none too gladsome to wake and grow cold where life's shadows pass.