It does not matter what the world may say: I feel no interest in its blame or praise.
I only know we dwell apart to-day, And shall through endless days.
It does not matter. For my restless heart Is numb to sorrow, or to pleasure"s touch.
Since it must be that we two drift apart, Why, nothing matters much.
THE UNDER-TONE
In the dull, dim dawn of day I heard The twitter and thrill of a brown-backed bird, As he sat and sang in the leafless tree, A herald of beautiful days to be.
But the minor running under the strain Went to my heart with a sudden pain, For never so sad a sound I heard As the troubled thrill of the brown-backed bird.
Not in the wearisome wash of waves, With moaning murmur of wrecks and graves, Not in the weird winds" wildest wail, Not in the roar of the rushing gale.
Not in the sob of dying years Are sounds so solemn and full of tears.
O herald of days that are green and glad, Why was your morning song so sad?
Have you a secret hidden away, Of sorrow to come with a coming day?
Folded under a folded leaf, Lies there trouble and bitter grief?
The shadow of death, and tears, and gloom Coming to me when roses bloom?
Will the beautiful days I long for so Hold like your song a strain of woe?
What is the secret you hide from me O herald of days that are to be?
And why was that desolate minor moan Lurking under your gladdest tone?
WORTH LIVING
I know not what the future may hold, Or how to others it seems, But I know my skies have held more gold Than I used to find in my dreams.
Though the whole world sings of hopes death chilled, In grateful truth I say, That my best hopes have been fulfilled, And more than fulfilled to-day.
Though oft my arrow I aim at the sun To see it fall into the sand, Yet just as often some work I have done Is better than I have planned.
I do not always grasp the pleasure For which I reach, maybe; But quite as frequently over-measure Is given by joy to me.
To-morrow may bring a grief behind it That will thoroughly change my mood; But we only can speak of a thing as we find it-- And I have found life good.
MORE FORTUNATE
I hold that life more fortunate by far That sits with its sweet memories alone And cherishes a joy for ever flown Beyond the reach of accident to mar.
(Some joy that was extinguished like a star) Than that which makes the prize so much its own That its poor commonplacenesses are shown; (Which in all things, when viewed too closely, are.)
Better to mourn a blossom s.n.a.t.c.hed away Before it reached perfection, than behold With dry, unhappy eyes, day after day, The fresh bloom fade, and the fair leaf decay.
Better to lose the dream, with all its gold, Than keep it till it changes to dull grey.
HE WILL NOT COME
Take out the blossom in your hair abloom, No more it seemeth beautiful, or bright, And sickening is its subtly sweet perfume-- He will not come to-night.
Take off the necklace with its sparkling gem, And rings that glow and glitter in the light, And fling them in the case that waits for them-- He will not come to-night.
Take off the robe a little while ago You chose, to make you fairer in his sight; "Tis ten o"clock. So late you can but know He will not come to-night.
He will not come. G.o.d grant you strength and grace, For never more upon your mortal sight Shall dawn a glimpse of that beloved face That did not come to-night.
He will not come. And through the shadowed years, The perfume of that blossom that you wore Shall stir the fount of salt and bitter tears-- For one who comes no more.
WORN OUT
I saw a young heart in the grasp of pain; With bruised breast, and broken, bleeding wing Shipwrecked on hopeless love"s tempestuous main, Lay the poor tortured thing.
It pulsed with all the anguish of despair; It ached with all a fond heart"s awful power; Yet I, who stood unhurt above it there, Envied its lot that hour.
I, who have wasted all the sacred, deep Emotions of my soul in spendthrift fashion, Until no sorrow now can make me weep-- No joy stir me with pa.s.sion.
I, who have scattered here and there the gold Of my heart"s store, until I spent the whole; Yet unto each so little gave to hold, That I enriched no soul.
I, who have sold the birthright of sweet tears, And no more feel a thrill in pulse or brain, Would gladly have exchanged my tasteless years For one salt hour of pain.
Weep on, ye mourners. Glory in the cross Of some great grief. Thank G.o.d you do not know The greater grief that comes but with the loss Of power to suffer woe.
RONDEAU
As you forgot I may forget, When summer dews cease to be wet.
When whippoorwills disdain the night, When sun and moon are no more bright, And all the stars at midnight set.