The Golden Treasury of American Songs and Lyrics Part 25

And when he comes to me, I must sit quiet: Still as a stone-- All silent and cold.

If my heart riot-- Crush and defy it!

Should I grow bold-- Say one dear thing to him, All my life fling to him, Cling to him-- What to atone Is enough for my sinning!

This were the cost to me, This were my winning-- That he were lost to me.

Not as a lover At last if he part from me, Tearing my heart from me-- Hurt beyond cure,-- Calm and demure Then must I hold me-- In myself fold me-- Lest he discover; Showing no sign to him By look of mine to him What he has been to me-- How my heart turns to him, Follows him, yearns to him, Prays him to love me.

Pity me, lean to me, Thou G.o.d above me!

R.W. GILDER.

The Flight.

Upon a cloud among the stars we stood.

The angel raised his hand and looked and said, "Which world, of all yon starry myriad Shall we make wing to?" The still solitude Became a harp whereon his voice and mood Made spheral music round his haloed head.

I spake--for then I had not long been dead-- "Let me look round upon the vasts, and brood A moment on these orbs ere I decide ...

What is yon lower star that beauteous s.h.i.+nes And with soft splendor now incarnadines Our wings?--_There_ would I go and there abide."

He smiled as one who some child's thought divines: "That is the world where yesternight you died."

L. MIFFLIN.

Childhood.

Old Sorrow I shall meet again, And Joy, perchance--but never, never, Happy Childhood, shall we twain See each other's face forever!

And yet I would not call thee back, Dear Childhood, lest the sight of me, Thine old companion, on the rack Of Age, should sadden even thee.

J.B. TABB.

Little Boy Blue.[10]

The little toy dog is covered with dust, But st.u.r.dy and stanch he stands; And the little toy soldier is red with rust, And his musket moulds in his hands.

Time was when the little toy dog was new And the soldier was pa.s.sing fair, And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue Kissed them and put them there.

"Now, don't you go till I come," he said, "And don't you make any noise!"

So toddling off to his trundle-bed He dreampt of the pretty toys.

And as he was dreaming, an angel song Awakened our Little Boy Blue,-- Oh, the years are many, the years are long, But the little toy friends are true.

Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand, Each in the same old place, Awaiting the touch of a little hand, The smile of a little face.

And they wonder, as waiting these long years through, In the dust of that little chair, What has become of our Little Boy Blue Since he kissed them and put them there.

E. FIELD.

[10] From "A Little Book of Western Verse," copyright, 1889, by Eugene Field, published by Charles Scribner's Sons.

Strong as Death.[11]

O death, when thou shalt come to me From out thy dark, where she is now, Come not with graveyard smell on thee, Or withered roses on thy brow.

Come not, O Death, with hollow tone, And soundless step, and clammy hand-- Lo, I am now no less alone Than in thy desolate, doubtful land;

But with that sweet and subtle scent That ever clung about her (such As with all things she brushed was blent); And with her quick and tender touch.

With the dim gold that lit her hair, Crown thyself, Death; let fall thy tread So light that I may dream her there, And turn upon my dying bed.

And through my chilling veins shall flame My love, as though beneath her breath; And in her voice but call my name, And I will follow thee, O Death.

H.C. BUNNER.

[11] From "The Poems of H.C. Bunner," copyright, 1884, 1892, 1896 by Charles Scribner's Sons.

The White Jessamine.

I knew she lay above me, Where the cas.e.m.e.nt all the night Shone, softened with a phosphor glow Of sympathetic light, And that her fledgling spirit pure Was pluming fast for flight.

Each tendril throbbed and quickened As I nightly climbed apace, And could scarce restrain the blossoms When, anear the destined place, Her gentle whisper thrilled me Ere I gazed upon her face.

I waited, darkling, till the dawn Should touch me into bloom, While all my being panted To outpour its first perfume, When, lo! a paler flower than mine Had blossomed in the gloom!

J.B. TABB.

The House of Death.