| Is it the shrewd October wind Brings the tears into her eyes? Does it blow so strong that she must fetch Her breath in sudden sighs? The sound of his horse’s feet grows faint, The Rider has passed from sight; The day dies out of the crimson west, And coldly falls the night. She presses her tremulous fingers tight Against her closéd eyes, And on the lonesome threshold there, She cowers down and cries. |
THE SARCASTIC FAIR.
| Her mouth is a honey-blossom, No doubt, as the poet sings; But within her lips, the petals, Lurks a cruel bee, that stings. |
RAPTURE.
| In my rhyme I fable anguish, Feigning that my love is dead, Playing at a game of sadness, Singing hope forever fled,–– Trailing the slow robes of mourning, Grieving with the player’s art, With the languid palms of sorrow Folded on a dancing heart. I must mix my love with death-dust, Lest the draught should make me mad; I must make believe at sorrow, Lest I perish, over-glad. |