The woman he loved, while he dreamed of her,
Danced on till the stars grew dim,
But alone with her heart, from the world apart
Sat the woman who loved him.

The woman he worshipped only smiled
When he poured out his passionate love.
But the other somewhere, kissed her treasure most rare,
A book he had touched with his glove.

The woman he loved betrayed his trust,
And he wore the scars for life;
And he cared not, nor knew, that the other was true;
But no man called her his wife.

TWO youths from a village set out together
To seek their fortune the wide world through;
One cried, 'Hurra for the autumn weather!'
The other sighed, 'Winter is almost due!'
One failed, they said, for he never was thrifty,
Returned to the village, and laughed and loved.
The other succeeded, and when he was fifty
Had millions and fame, and the world approved.

But the failure was happy, his smile a blessing,
The dogs and the children romped at his feet,
While from him who succeeded, tho' much possessing,

Were thou and I the white pinions
On some eager, heaven-born dove,
Swift would we mount to the old dominions,
To our rest of old, my love!

Were thou and I trembling strands
In music's enchanted line,
We would wait and wait for magic hands
To untwist the magic twine.

Were we two sky-tints, thou and I,
Thou the golden, I the red;
We would quiver and glow and darken and die,
And love until we were dead!

Nearer than wings of one dove,
Than tones or colours in chord,
We are one-and safe, and for ever, my love,

How many hours in a day?
They number twenty four.
How many hours can one give love?
Well, lovers don't keep score.

A clock that tells the time of day
Can't measure gifts of love,
Not those expected here on earth,
Nor sent us from above.

The clock ticks on incessantly
When lovers are apart;
And time drags on relentlessly
With every beat of heart.

Yet, hearts beat so expectantly
When lovers plan to meet;
While clocks and watches stand aside,
With time in full retreat.

Two dozen roses sent to you

In spring when branches of woodbine
Hung leafless over the rocks,
And fleecy snow in the hollows
Lay in unshepherded flocks,

By the road where dead leaves rustled,
Or damply matted the ground,
While over me lifted the robin
His honey'd passion of sound,

I came upon trailing arbùtus
Blooming in modesty sweet,
And gathered store of its riches
Offered and spread at my feet.

It grew under leaves, as if seeking
No hint of itself to disclose,
And out of its pink-white petals
A delicate perfume rose.

Tragedy in Colorado

There are 13 crosses and we're torn apart,
There are 13 crosses and blood flows from our heart.
There are 13 crosses and our souls are crying.
There are 13 crosses and white doves are flying,
They've taken these angels up to our God
To be protected and loved and to send peace from above.
To heal from this tragedy seems to much to bear
There are many souls to be healed and the whole world cares,
Can we love and forget and let love take it's place
Or will we let bitterness and hate line our face,

Well my friends are gone and my hair is grey
I ache in the places where I used to play
And I'm crazy for love but I'm not coming on
I'm just paying my rent every day
Oh in the Tower of Song

Into these Loves who but for Passion looks,
At this first sight here let him lay them by
And seek elsewhere, in turning other books,
Which better may his labor satisfy.
No far-fetch'd sigh shall ever wound my breast,
Love from mine eye a tear shall never wring,
Nor in Ah me's my whining sonnets drest;
A libertine, fantasticly I sing.
My verse is the true image of my mind,
Ever in motion, still desiring change,
And as thus to variety inclin'd,
So in all humours sportively I range.
My Muse is rightly of the English strain,

Tender caresses of kind little sisters
Are ready for you.
With the birds' songs, O the charmed prince,
We're waiting for you.
Branch drunk with sun, you grew, visage of heaven
Before my eyes.
Like a girl tender, like a child quiet,
All - surprise.
They'll often say: 'These sisters are treacherous
In each reply!'
Cocky with daring ones, kids with a boy, timid
With someone shy.
We love, like you, melting clouds and birches
And melted snow.
We love the tales about grandmother's daughters,
Little and slow!

Hide this one night thy crescent, kindly Moon;

So shall Endymion faithful prove, and rest

Loving and unawakened on thy breast;

So shall no foul enchanter importune

Thy quiet course; for now the night is boon,

And through the friendly night unseen I fare,

Who dread the face of foemen unaware,

And watch of hostile spies in the bright noon.

Thou knowest, Moon, the bitter power of Love;

’Tis told how shepherd Pan found ways to move,

For little price, thy heart; and of your grace,