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Denis Florence MacCarthy
This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 9 pages of information about Poems.

It may not be—­that which we pray
For tearfully—­but dare not say. 
    And yet if, Sweet, it may not be,
    We still may suffer silently,
Watching our sunlight fade away,
          For our Love’s sake.

ECHOES.

A breath | A breath
    And a sigh,—­ | And a sigh,—­
    How we fly | How we fly
From Death! | From Death!—­
                        |
A palm | Sing on
    Warm pressed, | O our bird! 
    As we guessed | Thou art heard
Love’s psalm. | Alone.
                        |
A word | We know
    Breathed close, | No life,
    And then rose | Neither strife,
The bird | Nor woe,
                        |
That cowers | Nor aught
    In the wood | But this hour,—­
    ’Mid a flood | Love’s dower
Of flowers, | Dear bought.—­
                        |
Till Love’s | Death’s voice
    Heart sighs, | Is away,
    Like the cries | And we may
Of doves,—­ | Rejoice.
                        |
Then sings | The bird
    His song, | Of our song
    Beating strong | May be long
White wings,—­ | Unheard,
                        |
Heart clear | But, Dear,
    Though faint, | Bend low;
    Like a saint | It is now
In prayer.—­ | We hear.
                        |
He reigns | Dear Heart
    In power, | Your kiss!—­
    And Love’s hour | After this
Disdains. | We part.
                        |
Forget | A breath
    For a day | And a sigh,—­
    All his sway, | How we fly
Life’s fret. | From Death!

NOON.

No ripple stirs the water,
    No song-bird wakes the grove,
Calm noon-tide sways his sceptre,
    And hushes even love.

On earth the sun-god bending
    Poureth his wondrous store;
The soft-tongued tide, advancing,
    Laps the unconscious shore.

The long, low isle of marsh-land
    Stretches in weary waste,
By sloping sand-banks guarded,
    By winding weeds embraced.

Comes clearly from the open
    The plash of distant oars,—­
Over the rocky headland
    The snow-white sea-gull soars.

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