This lovely morn the dewdrops flash
Like diamonds on the grass—
A blaze of sparkling jewels! But
The autumn wind, alas!
Scatters them as I pass.

When love is bright and whole again,
I'll sing like the bee's weather,
I'll set my colours up again
Like the cock-pheasant's feather,
I'll find a note to make me one
With lyric birds that sing the sun.

I'll fill my songs with palmer's buds
And sprigs of thorn for Whitsunday,
And they shall dance as willow rods,
And shine with garlands of the may,
I'll be a theme that takes the spring
From bushes where the blackbirds sing.

I'll walk among my sheep again
And turn my steps to numbers,
When love is bright and whole again

So many a dream and hope that went and came,
So many and sweet, that love thought like to be,
Of hours as bright and soft as those for me
That made our hearts for song's sweet love the same,
Lie now struck dead, that hope seems one with shame.
O Death, thy name is Love: we know it, and see
The witness: yet for very love's sake we
Can hardly bear to mix with thine his name

Philip, how hard it is to bid thee part
Thou knowest, if aught thou knowest where now thou art
Of us that loved and love thee. None may tell

Sister of sleep, healer of life, divine
As rest and strong as very love may be,
To set the soul that love could set not free,
To bid the skies that day could bid not shine,
To give the gift that life withheld was thine.
With all my heart I loved one borne from me:
And all my heart bows down and praises thee,
Death, that hast now made grief not his but mine.

O Changer of men's hearts, we would not bid thee
Turn back our hearts from sorrow: this alone.
We bid, we pray thee, from thy sovereign throne
And sanctuary sublime where heaven has hid thee,

Could love give strength to thank thee! Love can give
Strong sorrow heart to suffer: what we bear
We would not put away, albeit this were
A burden love might cast aside and live.
Love chooses rather pain than palliative,
Sharp thought than soft oblivion. May we dare
So trample down our passion and our prayer
That fain would cling round feet now fugitive
And stay them—so remember, so forget,
What joy we had who had his presence yet,
What griefs were his while joy in him was ours
And grief made weary music of his breath,

Today, your being so considerate
Offends, but less than had it been spring
Candle-trickling tears I shed this night
Are not because you bring her home at dark
Her dance mat come autumn will fold away,
Her concert fan will gather sheets of dust
Since time began new love supplants the old,
So why does old love hate to greet the new?
A sliver of moon peeps into her flowery bed,
Slight chill creeps under her shawl and scarf.
Autumn will come when all things wither,
And touch her body with nature's stealth.

There is a life of endless bliss,
Far in the spirit sphere,
A better home by far than this,
Of purer love than here.

Peace, like a river broad and deep,
O'erflows that happy land,
And gales of heavenly rapture sweep
Along its blooming strand.

Celestial mansions, bright and fair,
In glorious grandeur rise,
The gardens of the Lord are there,—
The vales of paradise.

O let us tread the blessed road
Of goodness, truth and love,
Led by the spirit of our God,
To that pure home above.

We were waiting at the station,
Soon the cars would surely start,
Hearts beat high with love's emotion,
For we knew we soon must part.
On dark lashes seemed to glisten
Tiny crystal tear drops shine;
To the fond voice glad I listen,
While dear eyes look into mine.

And the last words quickly spoken,
Darling still to me be true,
Let your promise be unbroken,
For I will be true to you.
Once I felt the soft hand tremble,
And my heart throbbed with its bliss;
Lips that rose-buds did resemble,
Met in one last loving kiss.

My lad is ever gone from me.
The roads all beckon him away;
And all day long, and every day,
The wide world bids him come and see!
Unto my lad, the Spring we met
Was no more fair than any spring;—
A listless bud, a wayside thing
To strip of petals and forget
At some clear call from out a pine.
My lad, he is no lad of mine:
I think I shall not ever set
My eyes on his, again.—And yet,
My heart like some dull talking-bird
Learns not from sorrow, but must say
Over and over, one poor word
Against the throb of sad or glad;—

O me, O me, what frugal cheer
My love doth feed upon!
A touch, a ray, that is not here,
A shadow that is gone:

A dream of breath that might be near,
An inly-echoed tone,
The thought that one may think me dear,
The place where one was known,

The tremor of a banished fear,
An ill that was not done—
O me, O me, what frugal cheer
My love doth feed upon!