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With a love that shall not die

  Till the sun grows cold,

  And the stars are old,

  And the leaves of the Judgment

  Book unfold!

  Look from thy window, and see

  My passion and my pain;

  I lie on the sands below,

  And I faint in thy disdain.

  Let the night-winds touch thy brow

  With the heat of my burning sigh,

  And melt thee to hear the vow

  Of a love that shall not die

  Till the sun grows cold,

  And the stars are old,

  And the leaves of the Judgment

  Book unfold!

  My steps are nightly driven,

  By the fever in my breast,

  To hear from thy lattice breathed

  The word that shall give me rest.

  Open the door of thy heart,

  And open thy chamber door,

  And my kisses shall teach thy lips

  The love that shall fade no more

  Till the sun grows cold,

  And the stars are old,

  And the leaves of the Judgment

  Book unfold!

  BAYARD TAYLOR

  SONG Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;

  Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;

  Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font:

  The firefly wakens: waken thou with me.

  Now droops the milkwhite peacock like a ghost,

  And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.

  Now lies the earth all Danaë to the stars,

  And all thy heart lies open unto me.

  Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves

  A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.

  Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,

  And slips into the bosom of the lake:

  So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip

  Into my bosom and be lost in me.

  ALFRED TENNYSON

  AT NIGHTFALL I need so much the quiet of your love

  After the day’s loud strife;

  I need your calm all other things above

  After the stress of life.

  I crave the haven that in your dear heart lies,

  After all toil is done;

  I need the starshine of your heavenly eyes,.

  After the day’s great sun.

  CHARLES HANSON TOWNE

  CREED I believe if I should die,

  And you should kiss my eyelids when I lie

  Cold, dead, and dumb to all the world contains,

  The folded orbs would open at thy breath,

  And, from its exile in the isles of death,

  Life would come gladly back along my veins.

  I believe if I were dead,

  And you upon my lifeless heart should tread,

  Not knowing what the poor clod chanced to be,

  It would find sudden pulse beneath the touch

  Of him it ever loved in life so much,

  And throb again—warm, tender, true to thee.

  I believe if on my grave,

  Hidden in woody depths or by the wave,

  Your eyes should drop some warm tears of regret,

  From every salty seed of your dear grief

  Some fair, sweet blossom would leap into leaf

  To prove death could not make my love forget.

  I believe if I should fade

  Into those mystic realms where light is made,

  And you should long once more my face to see,

  I would come forth upon the hills of night

  And gather stars, like fagots, till thy sight,

  Led by their beacon blaze, fell full on me.

  I believe my faith in thee,

  Strong as my life, so nobly placed to be,

  I would as soon expect to see the sun

  Fall like a dead king from his height sublime,

  His glory stricken from the throne of time,

  As thee unworth the worship thou hast won.

  I believe who hath not loved

  Hath half the sweetness of his life unproved;

  Like one who, with the grape within his grasp,

  Drops it with all its crimson juice unpressed,

  And all its luscious sweetness left unguessed,

  Out from his careless and unheeding clasp.

  I believe love, pure and true,

  Is to the soul a sweet, immortal dew

  That gems life’s petals in its hours of dusk.

  The waiting angels see and recognize

  The rich crown jewel, Love, of Paradise,

  When life falls from us like a withered husk.

  MARY ASHLEY TOWNSEND

  ALL PATHS

  LEAD TO YOU All paths lead to you

  Where e’er I stray,

  You are the evening star

  At the end of day.

  All paths lead to you

  Hill-top or low,

  You are the white birch

  In the sun’s glow.

  All paths lead to you

  Where e’er I roam.

  You are the lark-song

  Calling me home!

  BLANCHE SHOEMAKER WAGSTAFF

  SONG Go, lovely rose,

  Tell her that wastes her time and me,

  That now she knows,

  When I resemble her to thee,

  How sweet and fair she seems to be.

  Tell her that’s young,

  And shuns to have her graces spy’d,

  That hadst thou sprung

  In deserts, where no men abide,

  Thou must have uncommended died.

  Small is the worth

  Of Beauty from the light retir’d;

  Bid her come forth,

  Suffer her self to be desir’d,

  And not blush so to be admir’d.

  Then die, that she,

  The common fate of all things rare,

  May read in thee;

  How small a part of time they share,

  That are so wondrous sweet and fair.

  EDMUND WALLER

  LUCY She dwelt among the untrodden ways

  Beside the springs of Dove;

  A maid whom there were none to praise,

  And very few to love.

  A violet by a mossy stone

  Half hidden from the eye!

  Fair as a star, when only one

  Is shining in the sky.

  She lived unknown, and few could know

  When Lucy ceased to be;

  But she is in her grave, and O,

  The difference to me!

  WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

  SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT She was a Phantom of delight

  When first she gleamed upon my sight;

  A lovely Apparition, sent

  To be a moment’s ornament;

  Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;

  Like Twilight’s, too, her dusky hair;

  But all things else about her drawn

  From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;

  A dancing Shape, an Image gay,

  To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.

  I saw her upon nearer view,

  A Spirit, yet a Woman too!

  Her household motions light and free,

  And steps of virgin-liberty;

  A countenance in which did meet

  Sweet records, promises as sweet;

  A Creature not too bright or good

  For human nature’s daily food;

  For transient sorrows, simple wiles,

  Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

  And now I see with eyes serene

  The very pulse of the machine;

  A Being breathing thoughtful breath,

  A Traveller between life and death;

  The reason firm, the temperate will,

  Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;

  A perfect Woman, nobly planned,

  To warn, to comfort, and c
ommand;

  And yet a Spirit still, and bright

  With something of angelic light.

  WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

  THE WANT OF YOU The want of you is like no other thing;

  It smites my soul with sudden sickening;

  It binds my being with a wreath of rue—

  This want of you.

  It flashes on me with the waking sun;

  It creeps upon me when the day is done;

  It hammers at my heart the long night through—

  This want of you.

  It sighs within me with the misting skies;

  Oh, all the day within my heart it cries,

  Old as your absence, yet each moment new—

  This want of you.

  Mad with demand and aching with despair,

  It leaps within my heart and you are—where?

  God has forgotten, or he never knew—

  This want of you.

  IVAN LEONARD WRIGHT

  IF YOU’RE EVER GOING TO LOVE ME If you’re ever going to love me love me now, while I can know

  All the sweet and tender feelings which from real affection flow.

  Love me now, while I am living; do not wait till I am gone

  And then chisel it in marble—warm love words on ice-cold stone.

  If you’ve dear, sweet thoughts about me, why not whisper them to me?

  Don’t you know ‘twould make me happy and as glad as glad could be?

  If you wait till I am sleeping, ne’er to waken here again,

  There’ll be walls of earth between us and I couldn’t hear you then.

  If you knew someone was thirsting for a drop of water sweet

  Would you be so slow to bring it? Would you step with laggard feet?

  There are tender hearts all round us who are thirsting for our love;

  Why withhold from them what nature makes them crave all else above?

  I won’t need your kind caresses when the grass grows o’er my face;

  I won’t crave your love or kisses in my last low resting place.

  So, then, if you love me any, if it’s but a little bit,

  Let me know it now while living; I can own and treasure it.

  ANONYMOUS

  IF YOU BUT KNEW If you but knew

  How all my days seemed filled with dreams of you,

  How sometimes in the silent night

  Your eyes thrill through me with their tender light,

  How oft I hear your voice when others speak,

  How you ’mid other forms I seek—

  Oh, love more real than though such dreams were true

  If you but knew.

  Could you but guess

  How you alone make all my happiness,

  How I am more than willing for your sake

  To stand alone, give all and nothing take,

  Nor chafe to think you bound while I am free,

  Quite free, till death, to love you silently,

  Could you but guess.

  Could you but learn

  How when you doubt my truth I sadly yearn

  To tell you all, to stand for one brief space

  Unfettered, soul to soul, as face to face,

  To crown you king, my king, till life shall end,

  My lover and likewise my truest friend,

  Would you love me, dearest, as fondly in return,

  Could you but learn?

  ANONYMOUS

  LOVE ME LITTLE,

  LOVE ME LONG Love me little, love me long,

  Is the burden of my song:

  Love that is too hot and strong

  Burneth soon to waste.

  I am with little well content,

  And a little from thee sent

  Is enough, with true intent,

  To be steadfast friend.

  Love me little, love me long,

  Is the burden of my song.

  Say thou lov’st me while thou live,

  I to thee my love will give,

  Never dreaming to deceive

  While that life endures:

  Nay, and after death in sooth,

  I to thee will keep my truth,

  As now when in my May of youth,

  This my love assures.

  Love me little, love me long,

  Is the burden of my song.

  Constant love is moderate ever,

  And it will through life persever,

  Give to me that with true endeavor.

  I will it restore:

  A suit of durance let it be,

  For all weathers, that for me,

  For the land or for the sea,

  Lasting evermore.

  Love me little, love me long,

  Is the burden of my song.

  ANONYMOUS

  WILL YOU LOVE ME

  WHEN I’M OLD? I would ask of you, my darling,

  A question soft and low,

  That gives me many a heartache

  As the moments come and go.

  Your love I know is truthful,

  But the truest love grows cold;

  It is this that I would ask you:

  Will you love me when I’m old?

  Life’s morn will soon be waning.

  And its evening bells be tolled,

  But my heart shall know no sadness,

  If you’ll love me when I’m old.

  Down the stream of life together

  We are sailing side by side,

  Hoping some bright day to anchor

  Safe beyond the surging tide.

  Today our sky is cloudless,

  But the night may clouds unfold;

  But, though storms may gather round us,

  Will you love me when I’m old?

  When my hair shall shade the snowdrift,

  And mine eyes shall dimmer grow,

  I would lean upon some loved one,

  Through the valley as I go.

  I would claim of you a promise,

  Worth to me a world of gold;

  It is only this, my darling,

  That you’ll love me when I’m old.

  ANONYMOUS

  Home and Childhood

  MY MOTHER’S GARDEN Her heart is like her garden,

  Old-fashioned, quaint and sweet,

  With here a wealth of blossoms,

  And there, a still retreat.

  Sweet violets are hiding,

  We know as we pass by,

  And lilies, pure as angel thoughts,

  Are opening somewhere nigh.

  Forget-me-nots there linger,

  To full perfection brought,

  And there bloom purple pansies

  In many a tender thought;

  There love’s own roses blossom,

  As from enchanted ground,

  And lavish perfume exquisite

  The whole glad year around.

  And in that quiet garden—

  The garden of her heart—

  Songbirds are always singing

  Their songs of cheer apart.

  And from it floats forever,

  O’ercoming sin and strife,

  Sweet as the breath of roses blown,

  The fragrance of her life.

  ALICE E. ALLEN

  ROCK ME TO SLEEP Backward, turn backward, O time, in your flight,

  Make me a child again just for to-night!

  Mother, come back from the echoless shore,

  Take me again to your heart as of yore;

  Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,

  Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;

  Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;—

  Rock me to sleep, Mother—rock me to sleep!

  Backward, flow backward, oh, tide of the years!

  I am so weary of toil and of tears—

  Toil without recompense, tears all in vain—

  Take them, and give me my childhood again!

  I have grown weary of dust and decay—

  Weary of flinging my soul-we
alth away;

  Weary of sowing for others to reap;—

  Rock me to sleep, Mother—rock me to sleep!

  Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,

  Mother, O Mother, my heart calls for you!

  Many a summer the grass has grown green,

  Blossomed and faded, our faces between:

  Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain,

  Long I to-night for your presence again.

  Come from the silence so long and so deep;—

  Rock me to sleep, Mother—rock me to sleep!

  Over my heart, in the days that are flown,

  No love like mother-love ever has shone;

  No other worship abides and endures—

  Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours:

  None like a mother can charm away pain

  From the sick soul and the world-weary brain.

  Slumber’s soft calms o’er my heavy lids creep;—

  Rock me to sleep, Mother—rock me to sleep!

  Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,

  Fall on your shoulders again as of old;

  Let it drop over my forehead to-night,

  Shading my faint eyes away from the light;

  For with its sunny-edged shadows once more

  Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore;

  Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep:—

  Rock me to sleep, Mother—rock me to sleep!

  Mother, dear Mother, the years have been long

  Since I last listened your lullaby song:

  Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem

  Womanhood’s years have been only a dream.

  Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,

  With your light lashes just sweeping my face,

  Never hereafter to wake or to weep;—

  Rock me to sleep, Mother—rock me to sleep!

  ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN

  INFANT JOY “I have no name:

  I am but two days old.”

  What shall I call thee?

  “I happy am,