Sister, when at the grassy mound… Which holds in cold embrace thy mo… The tears unbidden rush into my mo… And wash away from me all save the… Of thy pure life and patient suffe…

Peace to his ashes! I cannot for the soul of me Sorrowing bow, Tho I search through the heart of… Grieve for him now.

Sunless days and starless nights Bearing fruits of wrack and pain, Purge my lips of lover’s vows, Bid me never hope again. Yet the longing of my soul,

Love is the soothing voice of gods To which men ever list. Love is the ease of soul’s travail And sorrow’s alchemist.

On such a day as this I think, On such a day as this, When earth and sky and nature’s wh… Are clad in April’s bliss; And balmy zephyrs gently waft

The little child crosses the stree… Why does she wave to me? What sees she in my wasted form To hail so joyously? Her olive face and curly hair

I have found joy, Surcease from sorrow, From qualms for today And fears for tomorrow. I have found love,

The burnished glow of the old-gold… Shines brightly over me. A thousand stars, like a thousand… In a dark and placid sea, Bring memories of a golden night,

I’m a-waiting and a-watching for t… For the sun that’s ever shining, f… For the light that casts no shadow… For the rose that’s ever blooming… I’m a-waiting and a watching for t…

And Thou art One—One with th’ et… And with the flaming stars, and wi… Translucent, cold. The sentinel o… That clothes the sky in robes of l… The earth with warmth, the floweri…

I would not tarry if I could be g… Adown the path where calls my eage… That fate which knows naught but t… Holds me within its grasp, a helpl… And checks my steps when I would…

Old November, sere and brown, Clothes the country, haunts the to… Sheds its cloak of withered leaves… Brings its sighing, soughing breez… Prophet of the dying year,

There is naught in the pathless re… Of the pale, blue sky above, There is naught that the stars tel… As over the heavens they rove; That I have not felt, or have not…

As I lie in bed, Flat on my back; There passes across my ceiling An endless panaroma of things— Quick steps of gay-voiced children…

O why are there eyes like these, That sparkle and dapple and tease, So wide with the morning, so deep… Dancing and gleaming in passioned… O why are there eyes like these?