The Home Book of Verse Volume Ii Part 43

Lizette Woodworth Reese [1856-1935]

AMANTIUM IRAE

When this, our rose, is faded, And these, our days, are done, In lands profoundly shaded From tempest and from sun: Ah, once more come together, Shall we forgive the past, And safe from worldly weather Possess our souls at last?

Or in our place of shadows Shall still we stretch a hand To green, remembered meadows, Of that old pleasant land?

And vainly there foregathered, Shall we regret the sun?

The rose of love, ungathered?

The bay, we have not won?

Ah, child! the world's dark marges May lead to Nevermore, The stately funeral barges Sail for an unknown sh.o.r.e, And love we vow to-morrow, And pride we serve to-day: What if they both should borrow Sad hues of yesterday?

Our pride! Ah, should we miss it, Or will it serve at last?

Our anger, if we kiss it, Is like a sorrow past.

While roses deck the garden, While yet the sun is high, Doff sorry pride: for pardon, Or ever love go by.

Ernest Dowson [1867-1900]

IN A ROSE GARDEN

A hundred years from now, dear heart, We shall not care at all.

It will not matter then a whit, The honey or the gall.

The summer days that we have known Will all forgotten be and flown; The garden will be overgrown Where now the roses fall.

A hundred years from now, dear heart, We shall not mind the pain; The throbbing crimson tide of life Will not have left a stain.

The song we sing together, dear, The dream we dream together here, Will mean no more than means a tear Amid a summer rain.

A hundred years from now, dear heart, The grief will all be o'er; The sea of care will surge in vain Upon a careless sh.o.r.e.

These gla.s.ses we turn down to-day Here at the parting of the way-- We shall be wineless then as they, And shall not mind it more.

A hundred years from now, dear heart, We'll neither know nor care What came of all life's bitterness, Or followed love's despair.

Then fill the gla.s.ses up again, And kiss me through the rose-leaf rain; We'll build one castle more in Spain, And dream one more dream there.

John Bennett [1865-

"G.o.d BLESS YOU, DEAR, TO-DAY"

If there be graveyards in the heart From which no roses spring, A place of wrecks and old gray tombs From which no birds take wing, Where linger buried hopes and dreams Like ghosts among the graves, Why, buried hopes are dismal things, And lonely ghosts are knaves!

If there come dreary winter days, When summer roses fall And lie, forgot, in withered drifts Along the garden wall; If all the wreaths a lover weaves Turn thorns upon the brow,-- Then out upon the silly fool Who makes not merry now!

For if we cannot keep the past, Why care for what's to come?

The instant's p.r.i.c.k is all that stings, And then the place is numb.

If Life's a lie, and Love's a cheat, As I have heard men say, Then here's a health to fond deceit-- G.o.d bless you, dear, to-day!

John Bennett [1865-

TO-DAY

I bring you all my olden days, My childhood's morning glow; I love you down the meadow ways Where early blossoms blow: And up deep lanes of long-gone-by, s.h.i.+ning with dew-drops yet,-- I wander still, till you and I Over the world are met.

I bring you all my lonely days, My heart that hungered so; I love you through the wistful haze Of autumns burning low; And on pale seas, beneath wan sky, By weary tides beset, I voyage still, till you and I Over the world are met.

I bring you all my happy days,-- Armfuls of flowers--oh, I love you as the sunlight stays On mountains heaped with snow: And where the dearest dream-buds lie, With tears and dew-drops wet, I toss to-day; for you and I Over the world are met!

Benjamin R. C. Low [1880-

TO ARCADY

Across the hills of Arcady Into the Land of Song-- Ah, dear, if you will go with me The way will not be long!

It will not lead through solitudes Of wind-blown woods or sea; Dear, no! the city's weariest moods May scarce veil Arcady.

'Tis in no unfamiliar land Lit by some distant star.

No! Arcady is where you stand, And Song is where you are!

So walk but hand in hand with me-- No road can lead us wrong; These are the hills of Arcady-- Here is the Land of Song!

Charles Buxton Going [1863-

WILD WISHES

I wish, because the sweetness of your pa.s.sing Makes all the earth a garden where you tread, That I might be the meanest of your roses, To pave your path with petals pa.s.sion-red!

I wish, because the softness of your breathing Stirs the white jasmine at your window frame, That I might be the fragrance of a flower, To stir the night breeze with your dearest name!

I wish, because the glory of your dreaming Strews all the field of heaven with throbbing stars, That I might storm the portals of your slumber, And soar with you beyond night's golden bars!

I wish to be the day you die, Beloved, Though at its close my foolish heart must break!

But most of all, I wish, my dearest darling, To be the Blessed Morning when you wake!