The woman died and the song was still. 
    (It was sweet, so sweet, the singing.)
  But ever I hear the same low trill,
  Of the song that shakes my heart with a thrill,
    And goes forever winging.

LOVE DESPOILED

  As lone I sat one summer’s day,
    With mien dejected, Love came by;
  His face distraught, his locks astray,
    So slow his gait, so sad his eye,
    I hailed him with a pitying cry: 

  “Pray, Love, what has disturbed thee so?”
    Said I, amazed.  “Thou seem’st bereft;
  And see thy quiver hanging low,—­
    What, not a single arrow left? 
    Pray, who is guilty of this theft?”

  Poor Love looked in my face and cried: 
    “No thief were ever yet so bold
  To rob my quiver at my side. 
    But Time, who rules, gave ear to Gold,
    And all my goodly shafts are sold.”

THE LAPSE

  This poem must be done to-day;
    Then, I ’ll e’en to it. 
  I must not dream my time away,—­
    I ’m sure to rue it. 
  The day is rather bright, I know
    The Muse will pardon
  My half-defection, if I go
    Into the garden. 
  It must be better working there,—­
    I ’m sure it’s sweeter: 
  And something in the balmy air
    May clear my metre.

    [In the Garden.]

  Ah this is noble, what a sky! 
    What breezes blowing! 
  The very clouds, I know not why,
    Call one to rowing. 
  The stream will be a paradise
    To-day, I ’ll warrant. 
  I know the tide that’s on the rise
    Will seem a torrent;
  I know just how the leafy boughs
    Are all a-quiver;
  I know how many skiffs and scows
    Are on the river. 
  I think I ’ll just go out awhile
    Before I write it;
  When Nature shows us such a smile,
    We should n’t slight it. 
  For Nature always makes desire
    By giving pleasure;
  And so ’t will help me put more fire
    Into my measure.

    [On the River.]

  The river’s fine, I ’m glad I came,
    That poem ’s teasing;
  But health is better far than fame,
    Though cheques are pleasing. 
  I don’t know what I did it for,—­
    This air ’s a poppy. 
  I ’m sorry for my editor,—­
    He ’ll get no copy!

THE WARRIOR’S PRAYER

  Long since, in sore distress, I heard one pray,
    “Lord, who prevailest with resistless might,
  Ever from war and strife keep me away,
      My battles fight!”

  I know not if I play the Pharisee,
    And if my brother after all be right;
  But mine shall be the warrior’s plea to thee—­
      Strength for the fight.

  I do not ask that thou shalt front the fray,
    And drive the warring foeman from my sight;
  I only ask, O Lord, by night, by day,
      Strength for the fight!