Part 143

Jest a-wearyin' fer you - All the time a-feelin' blue; Wishin' fer you - wonderin' when You'll be comin' home again; Restless - don't know what to do - Jest a-wearyin' fer you!

Keep a-mopin' day by day: Dull - in everybody's way; Folks they smile an' pass along Wonderin' what on earth is wrong; 'Twouldn't help 'em if they knew - Jest a-wearyin' fer you.

Room's so lonesome, with your chair Empty by the fireplace there, Jest can't stand the sight o' it! Go outdoors an' roam a bit: But the woods is lonesome, too, Jest a-wearyin' fer you.

Comes the wind with sounds that' jes' Like the rustlin' o' your dress; An' the dew on flower an' tree Tinkles like your steps to me! Violets, like your eyes so blue - Jest a-wearyin' fer you!

Mornin' comes, the birds awake (Them that sung so fer your sake!), But there's sadness in the notes That come thrillin' from their throats! Seem to feel your absence, too - Jest a-wearyin' fer you.

Evenin' comes: I miss you more When the dark is in the door; 'Pears jest like you orter be There to open fer me! Latch goes tinklin' - thrills me through, Sets me wearyin' fer you!

. . . . . . . . .

Jest a-wearyin' fer you - All the time a-feelin' blue! Wishin' fer you - wonderin' when You'll be comin' home again; Restless - don't know what to do - Jest a-wearyin' fer you!

Frank L. Stanton [1857-1927]

THE LOVERS OF MARCHAID

Dominic came riding down, sworded, straight and splendid, Drave his hilt against her door, flung a golden chain. Said: "I'll teach your lips a song sweet as his that's ended, Ere the white rose call the bee, the almond flower again."

But he only saw her head bent within the gloom Over heaps of bridal thread bright as apple-bloom, Silver silk like rain that spread across the driving loom.

Dreaming Fanch, the cobbler's son, took his tools and laces, Wrought her shoes of scarlet dye, shoes as pale as snow; "They shall lead her wildrose feet all the fairy paces Danced along the road of love, the road such feet should go" -

But he only saw her eyes turning from his gift Out towards the silver skies where the white clouds drift, Where the wild gerfalcon flies, where the last sails lift.

Bran has built his homestead high where the hills may shield her, Where the young bird waits the spring, where the dawns are fair, Said: "I'll name my trees for her, since I may not yield her Stars of morning for her feet, of evening for her hair."

But he did not see them ride, seven dim sail and more, All along the harbor-side, white from shore to shore, Nor heard the voices of the tide crying at her door.

Jean-Marie has touched his pipe down beside the river When the young fox bends the fern, when the folds are still, Said: "I send her all the gifts that my love may give her, - Golden notes like golden birds to seek her at my will."

But he only found the waves, heard the sea-gull's cry, In and out the ocean caves, underneath the sky, All above the wind-washed graves where dead seamen lie.

Marjorie L. C. Pickthall [1883-1922]

SONG

She's somewhere in the sunlight strong, Her tears are in the falling rain, She calls me in the wind's soft song, And with the flowers she comes again.

Yon bird is but her messenger, The moon is but her silver car; Yea! sun and moon are sent by her, And every wistful waiting star.

Richard Le Gallienne [1866-

THE LOVER THINKS OF HIS LADY IN THE NORTH

Now many are the stately ships that northward steam away, And gray sails northward blow black hulls, and many more are they; And myriads of viking gulls flap to the northern seas: But Oh my thoughts that go to you are more than all of these!

The winds blow to the northward like a million eager wings, The driven sea a million white-capped waves to northward flings: I send you thoughts more many than the waves that fleck the sea, More eager than tempestuous winds, O Love long leagues from me!

O Love, long leagues from me, I would I trod the drenched deck Of some ship speeding to the North and staunch against all wreck, I would I were a sea-gull strong of wing and void of fear: Unfaltering and fleet I'd fly the long way to my Dear!

O if I were the sea, upon your northern land I'd beat Until my waves flowed over all, and kissed your wandering feet; And if I were the winds, I'd waft you perfumes from the South, And give my pleadings to your ears, my kisses to your mouth.