Over words that are left unspoken,
And of woe that was left unshared,
Over high resolutions broken,
And calls that would not be heard.
And the shade of a deeper sorrow
Still hovers about my chair;
It is this, and not life's November,
Has sprinkled with snow my hair.
For my life has passed into evening,
And I sit, mid the shadows here,
Hearing still the shadowy whisper
That success may be bought too dear.
TO THE RAIN
Come forth, O rain! from thy cool, distant hall,
And lave the parched brow of the feverish earth,
The little drooping flow'rets on thee call,
Come, with thy cool touch wake them up to mirth
They will lift up glad faces to the sky,
Drinking in gladness from the warm moist air,
Now, thirsty, hot, and faint they droop and die,
Thou only canst revive these fainting fair
The grain has shrivelled, pining after thee,
And waves light-headed from a sickly stalk,
There's no green herbage on the sunburned lea,
The glaring sun through glowing skies doth walk,
Looking down hotly on sweet Allumette,
Thinking to dry it with his ardent gaze,
Each day a strip of sand left bare and wet,
Tells how she shrinks from his pursuing rays
1870
DIVIDED
We came to the dividing line,
Then he passed over and I am here,
Sad and sore is this heart of mine
That has no power to shed a tear,
For, like one who rises and walks in sleep,
I am lost in a dream--I cannot weep.
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