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With hand on latch, a vision white Lingered reluctant, and again Half doubting if she did aright, Soft as the dews that fell that night, She said,--"Auf wiedersehen!"
The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair; I linger in delicious pain; Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air To breathe in thought I scarcely dare, Thinks she,--"Auf wiedersehen?"...
'Tis thirteen years; once more I press The turf that silences the lane; I hear the rustle of her dress, I smell the lilacs, and--ah, yes, I hear,--"Auf wiedersehen!"
Sweet piece of bashful maiden art!
The English words had seemed too fain, But these--they drew us heart to heart, Yet held us tenderly apart; She said,--"Auf wiedersehen!"
James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]
"FOREVER AND A DAY"
I little know or care If the blackbird on the bough Is filling all the air With his soft crescendo now; For she is gone away, And when she went she took The springtime in her look, The peachblow on her cheek, The laughter from the brook, The blue from out the May-- And what she calls a week Is forever and a day!
It's little that I mind How the blossoms, pink or white, At every touch of wind Fall a-trembling with delight; For in the leafy lane, Beneath the garden-boughs, And through the silent house One thing alone I seek.
Until she come again The May is not the May, And what she calls a week Is forever and a day!
Thomas Bailey Aldrich [1837-1907]
OLD GARDENS
The white rose tree that spent its musk For lovers' sweeter praise, The stately walks we sought at dusk, Have missed thee many days.
Again, with once-familiar feet, I tread the old parterre-- But, ah, its bloom is now less sweet Than when thy face was there.
I hear the birds of evening call; I take the wild perfume; I pluck a rose--to let it fall And perish in the gloom.
Arthur Upson [1877-1908]
FERRY HINKSEY
Beyond the ferry water That fast and silent flowed, She turned, she gazed a moment, Then took her onward road
Between the winding willows To a city white with spires; It seemed a path of pilgrims To the home of earth's desires.
Blue shade of golden branches Spread for her journeying, Till he that lingered lost her Among the leaves of Spring.
Laurence Binyon [1869--
WEARYIN' FER YOU
Jest a-wearyin' fer you-- All the time a-feelin' blue; Wis.h.i.+n' fer you--wonderin' when You'll be comin' home again; Restless--don't know what to do-- Jest a-wearyin' fer you!
Keep a-mopin' day by day: Dull--in everybody's way; Folks they smile an' pa.s.s along Wonderin' what on earth is wrong; 'Twouldn't help 'em if they knew-- Jest a-wearyin' fer you.
Room's so lonesome, with your chair Empty by the fireplace there, Jest can't stand the sight o' it!
Go outdoors an' roam a bit: But the woods is lonesome, too, Jest a-wearyin' fer you.
Comes the wind with sounds that' jes'
Like the rustlin' o' your dress; An' the dew on flower an' tree Tinkles like your steps to me!
Violets, like your eyes so blue-- Jest a-wearyin' fer you!
Mornin' comes, the birds awake (Them that sung so fer your sake!), But there's sadness in the notes That come thrillin' from their throats!
Seem to feel your absence, too-- Jest a-wearyin' fer you.
Evenin' comes: I miss you more When the dark is in the door; 'Pears jest like you orter be There to open fer me!
Latch goes tinklin'--thrills me through, Sets me wearyin' fer you!
Jest a-wearyin' fer you-- All the time a-feelin' blue!
Wis.h.i.+n' fer you--wonderin' when You'll be comin' home again; Restless--don't know what to do-- Jest a-wearyin' fer you!
Frank L. Stanton [1857-1927]
THE LOVERS OF MARCHAID
Dominic came riding down, sworded, straight and splendid, Drave his hilt against her door, flung a golden chain.
Said: "I'll teach your lips a song sweet as his that's ended, Ere the white rose call the bee, the almond flower again."
But he only saw her head bent within the gloom Over heaps of bridal thread bright as apple-bloom, Silver silk like rain that spread across the driving loom.
Dreaming Fanch, the cobbler's son, took his tools and laces, Wrought her shoes of scarlet dye, shoes as pale as snow; "They shall lead her wildrose feet all the fairy paces Danced along the road of love, the road such feet should go"--
But he only saw her eyes turning from his gift Out towards the silver skies where the white clouds drift, Where the wild gerfalcon flies, where the last sails lift.
Bran has built his homestead high where the hills may s.h.i.+eld her, Where the young bird waits the spring, where the dawns are fair, Said: "I'll name my trees for her, since I may not yield her Stars of morning for her feet, of evening for her hair."
But he did not see them ride, seven dim sail and more, All along the harbor-side, white from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e, Nor heard the voices of the tide crying at her door.
Jean-Marie has touched his pipe down beside the river When the young fox bends the fern, when the folds are still, Said: "I send her all the gifts that my love may give her,-- Golden notes like golden birds to seek her at my will."
But he only found the waves, heard the sea-gull's cry, In and out the ocean caves, underneath the sky, All above the wind-washed graves where dead seamen lie.
