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Denis Florence MacCarthy
This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 80 pages of information about Poems.

She had loving eyes, with a wistful look
In their depths that day, and I know you took
Her face in your hands and read it o’er,
As if you should never see it more;
You were right, for she died long years ago,
                   Years ago.

Had I trusted you—­for trust, you know
Will keep love’s fire forever aglow;
Then what would have mattered storm or sun,
But the watching—­the waiting, all is done;
For the woman that loved, died years ago,
                   Years ago.

Yes; I think you are constant, true and good,
I am tired, and would love you if I could;
I am tired, oh, friend, tired out; and yet,
Can we make sweet morn of the dim sunset? 
The woman that loved, died years ago,
                   Years ago.

Not a pulse of my heart is stirred by you,
No; even your tears cannot move me now;
So leave me alone, what is said is said,
What boots your prayers, she is dead! is dead! 
The woman you loved, long years ago,
                    Years ago.

AUTUMN SONG OF THE SWALLOW.

The sky is dark and the air is full of snow,
  I go to a warmer clime afar and away;
Though my heart is so tired I do not care for it now,
  But here in my empty nest I cannot stay;
                 Thus cried the swallow,
I go from the falling snow, oh, follow me—­oh, follow.

One night my mate came home with a broken wing,
  So he died; and my brood went long ago;
And I am alone, and I have no heart to sing,
  With no one to hear my song, and I must go;
                 Thus cried the swallow,
Away from dust and decay, oh, follow me—­oh, follow.

But I think I will never find so warm and safe a nest,
  As my home, in the pleasant days gone by, gone by,
I think I shall never fold my wings in such happy rest,
  Never again—­oh, never again till I die;
                 Thus cried the swallow,
But I go from the falling snow, oh, follow me—­oh, follow.

THE COQUETTE.

How can I be to blame? 
  Is it my fault I am fair? 
I did not fashion my features,
  Or brush the gold in my hair;
Because my eyes are so blue and bright,
  Must I never look up from the ground,
But put out with my eyelids’ snow their light,
  Lest some foolish heart they should wound?

How can I be in fault? 
  I am sure where hearts are so few,
It is difficult to discern
  The diamonds of paste from the true;
I thought him like all the rest,
  Skilful in playing his part;
As careful at cards or at chess,
  As winning a woman’s heart.

I am sure it is nothing wrong,
  Nothing to think of—­and yet
I know I lured him with glance and song,
  Into my shining net;
Provokingly cold at first he seemed,
  Like crystal to smiles and sighs,
But at last he felt the magic that gleamed
  In my dreamy violet eyes.

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