Part 121

Louise Chandler Moulton [1835-1908]

ADONAIS

Shall we meet no more, my love, at the binding of the sheaves, In the happy harvest-fields, as the sun sinks low, When the orchard paths are dim with the drift of fallen leaves, And the reapers sing together, in the mellow, misty eves: O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow!

Love met us in the orchard, ere the corn had gathered plume, - O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow! Sweet as summer days that die when the months are in the bloom, And the peaks are ripe with sunset, like the tassels of the broom, In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low.

Sweet as summer days that die, leafing sweeter each to each, - O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow! All the heart was full of feeling: love had ripened into speech, Like the sap that turns to nectar in the velvet of the peach, In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low.

Sweet as summer days that die at the ripening of the corn, - O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow! Sweet as lovers' fickle oaths, sworn to faithless maids forsworn, When the musty orchard breathes like a mellow drinking-horn, Over happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low.

Love left us at the dying of the mellow autumn eves, - O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow! When the skies are ripe and fading, like the colors of the leaves, And the reapers kiss and part, at the binding of the sheaves, In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low.

Then the reapers gather home, from the gray and misty meres; - O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow! Then the reapers gather home, and they bear upon their spears, One whose face is like the moon, fallen gray among the spheres, With the daylight's curse upon it, as the sun sinks low.

Faint as far-off bugles blowing, soft and low the reapers sung; - O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow! Sweet as summer in the blood, when the heart is ripe and young, Love is sweetest in the dying, like the sheaves he lies among, In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low.

William Wallace Harney [1831-1912]

FACE TO FACE

If my face could only promise that its color would remain; If my heart were only certain it would hide the moment's pain; I would meet you and would greet you in the old familiar tone, And naught should ever show you the wrong that you have done.

If my trembling hand were steady, if my smiles had not all fled; If my eyes spoke not so plainly of the tears they often shed; I would meet you and would greet you at the old trysting place, And perchance you'd deem me happy if you met me face to face.

If the melody of Springtime awoke no wild refrain, If the Autumn's gold burthen awoke no living pain, I would meet you and would greet you, as years ago we met, Before our hearts were shipwrecked on the ocean of regret.

If my woman's soul were stronger, if my heart were not so true, I should long have ceased remembering the love I had for you; But I dare not meet or greet you, in the old familiar way, Until we meet in Heaven, where all tears have passed away.

Frances Cochrane [18 -

ASHORE

Out I came from the dancing-place, The night-wind met me face to face, -

A wind off the harbor, cold and keen, "I know," it whistled, "where thou hast been."

A faint voice fell from the stars above - "Thou? whom we lighted to shrines of Love!"

I found when I reached my lonely room A faint sweet scent in the unlit gloom.

And this was the worst of all to bear, For some one had left white lilac there.

The flower you loved, in times that were.

Laurence Hope [1865-1904]

KHRISTNA AND HIS FLUTE

Be still, my heart, and listen, For sweet and yet acute I hear the wistful music Of Khristna and his flute. Across the cool, blue evenings, Throughout the burning days, Persuasive and beguiling, He plays and plays and plays.

Ah, none may hear such music Resistant to its charms, The household work grows weary, And cold the husband's arms. I must arise and follow, To seek, in vain pursuit, The blueness and the distance, The sweetness of that flute!

In linked and liquid sequence, The plaintive notes dissolve Divinely tender secrets That none but he can solve. O Khristna, I am coming, I can no more delay. "My heart has flown to join thee," How shall my footsteps stay?