“All the day long, and year by year,
She will go forward as you go;
As you grow older, she will grow;
As you grow good, she with her clear
And angel eyes, will mark and know.
“Think, when you wake up every day,
That she is standing by your bed,
Close to the pillow where her head,
Her little curly head, once lay,
With a ‘Good-morning’ smiled, not said.
“Think, when the hooks seem dull and tame,
The sports no longer what they were,
That there she sits, a shape of air,
And turns the leaf or joins the game
With the same smile she used to wear.
“So, moving on still, hand in hand,
One of these days your eyes will clear,
The hiding veil will disappear,
And you will know and understand
Just why your playmate left you here.”
This made me happier, and I try
To think each day that it may be.
Sometimes I do so easily;
But then again I have to cry,
Because I want so much to see!
“Entre deux amants il y a toujours l’an qui baise et l’autre qui tend la joue.”
I says he loves me well, and I
Believe it; in my hands, to make
Or mar, his life lies utterly,
Nor can I the strong plea deny.
Which claims my love for his love’s sake.
He says there is no face so fair
As mine; when I draw near, his eyes
Light up; each ripple of my hair
He loves; the very clunk I wear
He touches fondly where it lies.
And roses, roses all the way,
Upon my path fall, strewed by him;
His tenderness by night, by day,
Keeps faithful watch to heap alway
My cup of pleasure to the brim.
The other women, full of spite,
Count me the happiest woman born
To be so worshipped; I delight
To flaunt his homage in their sight,—
For me the rose, for them its thorn.
I love him—or I think I do;
Sure one must love what is so sweet.
He is all tender and all true,
All eloquent to plead and sue,
All strength—though kneeling at my feet.
Yet I had visions once of yore,
Girlish imaginings of a zest,
A possible thrill,—but why run o’er
These fancies?—idle dreams, no more;
I will forget them, this is best.
So let him take,—the past is past;
The future, with its golden key,
Into his outstretched hands I cast.
I shall love him—perhaps—at last,
As now I love his love for me.
Nor as all other women may,
Love I my Love; he is so great,
So beautiful, I dare essay
No nearness but in silence lay
My heart upon his path,—and wait.
Poor heart! its healings are so low
He does not heed them passing by,
Save as one heeds, where violets grow,
A fragrance, caring not to know
Where the veiled purple buds may lie.