So it has all ended in ashes—
This beautiful love of ours,
This love like the breath of dawn
On a summer lea—
This love that lit our hearts
With wonder.

Why could it not have been otherwise?
As a star that falls thro' space,
Silvery-wingèd and swift,
So I would that our love had died
Exquisite in its flight
Through the dark.

But all this weeping and anguish
That sweeps thro' our aching hearts
Is useless as bitter flame;
And the holy fane of love—
The miracle of our joy—
Is but ashes and empty tears.

For three years you loved me;
When you took me I was Aphrodite
Fresh from the foam
And wonder of Youth awakening.

For you the beauty of my natal hour;
My kisses were your food;
I watched you grow golden
With the manna of my love!

Now from my body all the lustre,
All the splendor of the sea
And the freshness of youth awakening,
Have vanished forever.

For three years you loved me;
Now I am no more Venus rising from the sea;
I am a Parian marble, white and silent,
Awaiting your worship.

The great love that was not for her
Passed on, nor paused to see
The wistful eyes, the hands' vague stir,
The mouth's mute misery.

The little love she recked not of
Crept closer bit by bit,
Until for very lack of love,
She smiled and welcomed it.

NoThers to choose, to weigh and part
The greater from the less;
She only strove to fill a heart
That ached with emptiness.

The Old Love kissed you and went by,
Without the New Love stands
With roses red to crown your head,
New roses in his hands.”

I know not if she heard at all;
I only know she bent
Above the withered blooms she held,
As one too well content.

“In this your house grown desolate
The chills of Winter cling;
The New Love waits without your gates
To lead you back to Spring.”

I know not if she heard at all;
I only know she turned
Her hands above the empty hearth,
As though the ashes burned.

True love is water'd aye wi' tears,
It grows 'neath stormy skies,
It's fenced around wi' hopes and fears,
An' fann'd wi' heartfelt sighs.
Wi' chains o' gowd 'twill no be bound,
Oh! wha the heart can buy?
The titled glare, the warldling's care—
Even absence 'twill defy,
Even absence 'twill defy.

And time, that kills a' ither things,
His withering touch 'twill brave,
'Twill live in joy, 'twill live in grief,
'Twill live beyond the grave!
'Twill live, 'twill live though buried deep,
In true hearts' memorie—

Show Love to those you love, lest Love should fail;
Let not the Long Grass grow on Friendship's Trail.

Some Hearts resemble Little Pools that are
Just large enough to mirror One Dear Star.

N EVER needlessly offend;
Lose no Chance to Make a Friend.

T HE Truest Mirrors Fortune sends
Are Honest Eyes of Faithful Friends.

O LD Friends are best; yet, as the Swift Years run,
Make New Ones, too, or Time may leave you None.

“L ITTLE children, come to me:”
This is what the Saviour said:
Little children, come and see
Where these gracious words are read.

Often on these pages look:
Of the love of God they tell;
'T is indeed a holy book:
Learn to read and love it well.

Thus you hear the Saviour speak,—
“Come ye all, and learn of me:”
He was gentle, lowly, meek;
So should all his followers be.

When our Saviour from above,
From his Father did descend,
Folded in his arms of love,
Children knew him for their friend.

My mistress loves no woodcocks
Yet loves to pick the bones;
My mistress loves no jewels
Yet loves the precious stones;
My mistress loves no hunting
Yet loves to hear the horn;
My mistress loves no tables
Yet loves to see men lorn;
My mistress loves no wrestling
Yet loves to take a fall;
My mistress loves not some things,
And yet she loveth all;
My mistress loves a spender
Yet loves she not a waster;
My mistress loves no cuckold,
And yet she loves my master.

Miraculous love's wounding!
E'en those darts my sweet Phyllis
So fiercely shot against my heart rebounding,
Are turned to roses, violets and lilies,
With odour sweet abounding.

To you, my conqueror, this ivy wound
In wreaths I give—the ivy that alway
Holds trees and walls close twined in spray on spray,
Tendril on tendril, wrapt, embraced, and bound.

It is your right to be with ivy crowned!
Would it were mine to wind me, night and day,
Round you, my column, in the ivy's way,
And lie along your breast in love's deep swound. . . .

Ah, will the time not come, will it not be—
When, just as dawn awakes the world to life,
'Neath branches of a bower thick shade encloses,