Memories And yet the house is full of her; She goes and comes again; And longings thrill, and memories stir, Out in their yards the neighbors walk, Of Anne, of Phyllis do they talk, Of Lydia not at all. Lizelle Woodworth Reese [1856 AFTER Он, the littles that remain! Scent of mint out in the lane; Flare of window, sound of bees;— Three times sitting down to bread; But just now out in the lane, Oh, the scent of mint was plain! Lizette Woodworth Reese [1856 MEMORIES Of my ould loves, of their ould ways, 1099 (I've kissed-'gainst rason an' 'gainst rhymeMore mouths than one in my mad time!) Of their soft ways an' words I dream, Wid betther lives, wid betther men, For me an' mine they're past an' done- Since I kissed her 'neath Tullagh Hill Och! up to mine her face still lifts, An' her soft arm, in some ould way, But, faith, 'twas her they buried deep, Aye, deep an' cold, in Killinkere, Arthur Stringer [1874 TO DIANE THE ruddy poppies bend and bow, The sun you knew shines proudly now, Diane! do you remember? I come to find you through the years, For none may rule my love's soft fears. I seek you through your tarnished halls, Diane! do you remember? I crush the poppies where I tread, Diane! do you remember? Your flower of life, so bright, so red She does not hear-Diane is dead. Her Dwelling-Place I pace the sunny bowers alone ΙΙΟΙ Where naught of her remains but stone. Sing low-where is Diane? Diane does not remember. Helen Hay Whitney [18 ASLEEP -- He knelt beside her pillow in the dead watch of the night, And he heard her gentle breathing, but her face was still and white, And on her poor, wan cheek a tear told how the heart can weep, And he said, "My love was weary-God bless her! she's asleep." He knelt beside her grave-stone in the shuddering autumn night, And he heard the dry grass rustle, and his face was thin and white, And through his heart the tremor ran of grief that cannot weep, And he said, "My love was weary-God bless her! she's asleep." William Winter [1836 HER DWELLING-PLACE AMID the fairest things that grow The wild, bright creatures of the wood To light her dusky solitude Comes April's carliest offering. The calm Night from her urn of rest Pours downward an unbroken stream; All day upon her mother's breast My lady lieth in a dream. Love could not chill her low, soft bed THE WIFE FROM FAIRYLAND HER talk was all of woodland things, Away in one green afternoon, For she had come from fairyland, The morning of a day When the world that still was April Was turning into May. Green leaves and silence and two eyes 'Twas so she seemed to me, A silver shadow of the woods, I looked into her woodland eyes, And all my granite and my gold I gave her all delight and ease In the Fall o' Year She loitered in magnificence Of marble and of gold, Sometimes, in the chill galleries, So lone a thing I never saw There came a day when on her heart In the green eyes I saw a smile That turned my heart to stone: For there had come a little hand 1103 Home through the leaves, home through the dew, Home through the greenwood-home. Richard Le Gallienne [1866 IN THE FALL O' YEAR I WENT back an old-time lane In the fall o' year, There was wind and bitter rain And the leaves were sere. Once the birds were lilting high In a far-off May I remember, you and I Were as glad as they. |