I'm going to laugh, I'm going to laugh,
I'm going to laugh,
Ha-ha!
E'en though the harvest be but chaff,
I'm going to laugh,
Ha-ha!
For laughter fills the heart with joy,
And kills the troubles that annoy,
And brings to age hopes of the boy—
Ha-ha!

I'm going to sing, I'm going to sing,
I'm going to sing,
Tra-la!
In face of sneer, and jeer, and fling,
I'm going to sing,
Tra-la!
For numbers rout the hosts of wrong,
And fill the spirit with a throng
Of joyous thoughts the whole day long—
Tra-la!

No lovelier song was ever heard
Than the notes of the Southern Mocking-Bird
When leaf and blossom are wet with dew
And the wind breathes low the long night through.
O music for grief! It comes like a song
From a voice in the stars; and all night long
The notes flow. But you must live in the South,
Where the clear moon kisses with large cool mouth
The land she loves, in the secret of night,
To hear such music—the soul-delight
Of the Moon-Loved Land.

When gentle twilight softly closes
The door of day, and the sun-fed roses

All things are hushed, as Nature's self lay dead;
The mountains seem to nod their drowsy head,
The little birds in dreams their song repeat,
And sleeping flowers beneath the night-dew sweat;
Even lust and envy sleep, yet love denies
Rest to my soul and slumber to my eyes.

I have a wish I dare not name
A wish I may not tell
But if thy bosom beats the same
Thy first guess aye may tell
I have a grief thats fain to flye
To find a place of rest
& could you love as well as I
That spot were easy guest

If life can own a thing so fair
To lift our love so high
That time & trouble cannot tire
& triumph when we die
If ere a thought earths joys can give
With death may ever be
Those that in other worlds shall live
Will be the thoughts of thee

Who will hear me? Whom shall I lament to?
Who would pity me that heard my sorrows?
Ah, the lip that erst so many raptures
Used to taste, and used to give responsive,
Now is cloven, and it pains me sorely;
And it is not thus severely wounded
By my mistress having caught me fiercely,
And then gently bitten me, intending
To secure her friend more firmly to her:
No, my tender lip is crack'd thus, only
By the winds, o'er rime and frost proceeding,
Pointed, sharp, unloving, having met me.
Now the noble grape's bright juice commingled

When the sixties are outrun,
And the seventies nearly done,
Or the eighties just begun;
May some young and happy man,
Wiser, kinder, nobler than
He who tenders this one, bring
You the real Magic Ring.

This one may have pleasant powers;
Charming idle girlish hours
With its tales from faerie bowers;
Tinting hopeful maiden dreams
With its soft romantic gleams;
Breathing love of love and truth,
Valour, innocence and ruth.

But may that one bless the life
Of the woman and the wife
Through our dull world's care and strife;

In Eastern lands they talk in flowers,
And they tell in a garland their loves and cares:
Each blossom that blooms in their garden bowers,
On its leaves a mystic language bears.

The rose is the sign of joy and love,—
Young, blushing love in its earliest dawn;
And the mildness that suits the gentle dove
From the myrtle's snowy flower is drawn.
Innocence shines in the lily's bell,
Pure as a heart in its native heaven;
Fame's bright star, and glory's swell,
By the glossy leaf of the bay are given.
The silent, soft, and humble heart

Of life my love a riddle makes,
All sweetness when I please her;
A lily when the whim she takes,
A tiger when I tease her!

With kisses oft of shy surprise,
She smiles in fond love-languor;
Sometimes with frowns and flashing eyes,
She looks superb in anger!

A checkered path of glooms and gleams,
Fate to our feet hath given;
One half our life a jungle seems,
The rest, a little Heaven!

With words as sharp as claws she tears
My heart-strings all unheeding,
Then soothes me with her lily airs,
And music of her pleading.

Better Love's bond should snap with the rending of soul and spirit
Than it should fritter away and part we never knew when.

If I were still that man, worthy to love,
Of whom I have but the remembrance now,
Or if the lady bore another brow,
To hear this thing might bring me joy thereof.
But thou, who in Love's proper court dost move,
Even there where hope is born of grace,—see how
My very soul within me is brought low:
For a swift archer, whom his feats approve,
Now bends the bow, which Love to him did yield,
In such mere sport against me, it would seem
As though he held his lordship for a jest.
Then hear the marvel which is sorriest:—