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Little lady of my heart!

Just a little longer

Be a child; then we will part,

Ere this love grow stronger.

Ernest Dowson (1867-1900]

MARIAN DRURY

MARIAN DRURY, Marian Drury,

How are the marshes full of the sea! Acadie dreams of your coming home

All year through, and her heart gets free,

Free on the trail of the wind to travel,
Search and course with the roving tide,
All year long where his hands unravel
Blossom and berry the marshes hide.

Marian Drury, Marian Drury,

How are the marshes full of the surge! April over the Norland now

Walks in the quiet from verge to verge.

Burying, brimming, the building billows
Fret the long dikes with uneasy foam.
Drenched with gold weather, the idling willows
Kiss you a hand from the Norland home.

Marian Drury, Marian Drury,

How are the marshes full of the sun!
Blomidon waits for your coming home,
All day long where the white wings run.

All spring through they falter and follow,
Wander, and beckon the roving tide,
Wheel and float with the veering swallow,
Lift you a voice from the blue hillside.

Marian Drury, Marian Drury,

How are the marshes full of the rain! April over the Norland now

Bugles for rapture, and rouses pain,-

999

Love's Rosary

Halts before the forsaken dwelling,

Where in the twilight, too spent to roam, Love, whom the fingers of death are quelling, Cries you a cheer from the Norland home.

Marian Drury, Marian Drury,

How are the marshes filled with you!
Grand Pré dreams of your coming home,→
Dreams while the rainbirds all night through,

Far in the uplands calling to win you,

Tease the brown dusk on the marshes wide; And never the burning heart within you

Stirs in your sleep by the roving tide.

Bliss Carman [1861

LOVE'S ROSARY

ALL day I tell my rosary

For now my love's away:

To-morrow he shall come to me
About the break of day;

A rosary of twenty hours,

And then a rose of May;

A rosary of fettered flowers,
And then a holy-day.

All day I tell my rosary,

My rosary of hours:

And here's a flower of memory,

And here's a hope of flowers,

And here's an hour that yearns with pain
For old forgotten years,

An hour of loss, an hour of gain,
And then a shower of tears.

All day I tell my rosary,

Because my love's away;

And never a whisper comes to me,

And never a word to say;

But, if it's parting more endears,
God bring him back, I pray;

Or my heart will break in the darkness
Before the break of day.

All day I tell my rosary,

My rosary of hours,

Until an hour shall bring to me

The hope of all the flowers

I tell my rosary of hours,

For O, my love's away;

And--a dream may bring him back to me

About the break of day.

Alfred Noyes [1880

WHEN SHE COMES HOME

WHEN she comes home again! A thousand ways
I fashion, to myself, the tenderness

Of my glad welcome: I shall tremble—yes;
And touch her, as when first in the old days

I touched her girlish hand, nor dared upraise

Mine eyes, such was my faint heart's sweet distress
Then silence: and the perfume of her dress:

The room will sway a little, and a haze
Cloy eyesight-soul-sight, even-for a space;
And tears-yes; and the ache here in the throat,
To know that I so ill deserve the place
Her arms make for me; and the sobbing note
I stay with kisses, ere the tearful face

Again is hidden in the old embrace.

James Whitcomb Riley [1852-1916]

THE TRAGEDY OF LOVE

SONG

My silks and fine array,

My smiles and languished air,

By Love are driven away;

And mournful lean Despair

Brings me yew to deck my grave:
Such end true lovers have.

His face is fair as heaven

When springing buds unfold:

O why to him was't given,

Whose heart is wintry cold?

His breast is Love's all-worshipped tomb,
Where all Love's pilgrims come.

Bring me an ax and spade,

Bring me a winding-sheet;

When I my grave have made,

Let winds and tempests beat:

Then down I'll lie, as cold as clay:

True love doth pass away!

William Blake [1757-1827)

THE FLIGHT OF LOVE

WHEN the lamp is shattered
The light in the dust lies dead-
When the cloud is scattered,
The rainbow's glory is shed.

When the lute is broken,

Sweet tones are remembered not;

When the lips have spoken,

Loved accents are soon forgot.

ΙΟΟΙ

As music and splendor

Survive not the lamp and the lute,
The heart's echoes render

No song when the spirit is mute—
No song but sad dirges,

Like the wind through a ruined cell,
Or the mournful surges

That ring the dead seaman's knell.

When hearts have once mingled,
Love first leaves the well-built nest;
The weak one is singled

To endure what it once possessed.

O Love! who bewailest

The frailty of all things here,

Why choose you the frailest

For your cradle, your home, and your bier?

Its passions will rock thee

As the storms rock the ravens on high;

Bright reason will mock thee,

Like the sun from a wintry sky.

From thy nest every rafter

Will rot, and thine eagle home

Leave thee naked to laughter,

When leaves fall and cold winds come.

Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822]

"FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST PRAYER"

FAREWELL! if ever fondest prayer
For other's weal availed on high,
Mine will not all be lost in air,

But waft thy name beyond the sky.
"Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh:
Oh! more than tears of blood can tell,
When wrung from guilt's expiring eye,
Are in that word-Farewell!-Farewell!

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