Part 142

FOR EVER

Thrice with her lips she touched my lips, Thrice with her hand my hand, And three times thrice looked towards the sea, But never to the land: Then, "Sweet," she said, "no more delay, For Heaven forbids a longer stay."

I, with my passion in my heart, Could find no words to waste; But striving often to depart, I strained her to my breast: Her wet tears washed my weary cheek; I could have died, but could not speak.

The anchor swings, the sheet flies loose And, bending to the breeze, The tall ship, never to return, Flies through the foaming seas: Cheerily ho! the sailors cry; - My sweet love lessening to my eye.

O Love, turn towards the land thy sight! No more peruse the sea; Our God, who severs thus our hearts, Shall surely care for thee: For me let waste-wide ocean swing, I too lie safe beneath His wing.

William Caldwell Roscoe [1823-1859]

AUF WIEDERSEHEN

The little gate was reached at last, Half hid in lilacs down the lane; She pushed it wide, and, as she passed, A wistful look she backward cast, And said, - "Auf wiedersehen!"

With hand on latch, a vision white Lingered reluctant, and again Half doubting if she did aright, Soft as the dews that fell that night, She said, - "Auf wiedersehen!"

The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair; I linger in delicious pain; Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air To breathe in thought I scarcely dare, Thinks she, - "Auf wiedersehen?" . . .

'Tis thirteen years; once more I press The turf that silences the lane; I hear the rustle of her dress, I smell the lilacs, and - ah, yes, I hear, - "Auf wiedersehen!"

Sweet piece of bashful maiden art! The English words had seemed too fain, But these - they drew us heart to heart, Yet held us tenderly apart; She said, - "Auf wiedersehen!"

James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]

"FOREVER AND A DAY"

I little know or care If the blackbird on the bough Is filling all the air With his soft crescendo now; For she is gone away, And when she went she took The springtime in her look, The peachblow on her cheek, The laughter from the brook, The blue from out the May - And what she calls a week Is forever and a day!

It's little that I mind How the blossoms, pink or white, At every touch of wind Fall a-trembling with delight; For in the leafy lane, Beneath the garden-boughs, And through the silent house One thing alone I seek. Until she come again The May is not the May, And what she calls a week Is forever and a day!

Thomas Bailey Aldrich [1837-1907]

OLD GARDENS

The white rose tree that spent its musk For lovers' sweeter praise, The stately walks we sought at dusk, Have missed thee many days.

Again, with once-familiar feet, I tread the old parterre - But, ah, its bloom is now less sweet Than when thy face was there.

I hear the birds of evening call; I take the wild perfume; I pluck a rose - to let it fall And perish in the gloom.

Arthur Upson [1877-1908]

FERRY HINKSEY

Beyond the ferry water That fast and silent flowed, She turned, she gazed a moment, Then took her onward road

Between the winding willows To a city white with spires; It seemed a path of pilgrims To the home of earth's desires.

Blue shade of golden branches Spread for her journeying, Till he that lingered lost her Among the leaves of Spring.

Laurence Binyon [1869 -

WEARYIN' FER YOU