u are a princess, a princess of the land,
You will not turn your lightsome eyes a moment where I stand,
A poor unnoticed poet, a-making of his rhymes;
But I have found a mistress, more fair a thousand times.

'Tis May, the elfish maiden, the daughter of the Spring,
Upon whose birthday morning the birds delight to sing.
They would not sing one note for you, if you should so command,
Although you are a princess, a princess of the land.

SONG IS NOT DEAD

Song is not dead, although to-day
Men tell us everything is said.
There yet is something left to say,
Song is not dead.

While still the evening sky is red,
While still the morning gold and grey,
While still the autumn leaves are shed,

While still the heart of youth is gay,
And honour crowns the hoary head,
While men and women love and pray
Song is not dead.

A SONG OF TRUCE

Till the tread of marching feet
Through the quiet grass-grown street
Of the little town shall come,
Soldier, rest awhile at home.

While the banners idly hang,
While the bugles do not clang,
While is hushed the clamorous drum,
Soldier, rest awhile at home.

In the breathing-time of Death,
While the sword is in its sheath,
While the cannon's mouth is dumb,
Soldier, rest awhile at home.

Not too long the rest shall be.
Soon enough, to Death and thee,
The assembly call shall come.
Soldier, rest awhile at home.

ONE TEAR

Last night, when at parting
Awhile we did stand,
Suddenly starting,
There fell on my hand

Something that burned it,
Something that shone
In the moon as I turned it,
And then it was gone.

One bright stray jewel--
What made it stray?
Was I cold or cruel,
At the close of day?

Oh, do not cry, lass!
What is crying worth?
There is no lass like my lass
In the whole wide earth.

A LOVER'S CONFESSION

When people tell me they have loved
But once in youth,
I wonder, are they always moved
To speak the truth?

Not that they wilfully deceive:
They fondly cherish
A constancy which they would grieve
To think might perish.

They cherish it until they think
'Twas always theirs.
So, if the truth they sometimes blink,
'Tis unawares.

Yet unawares, I must profess,
They do deceive
Themselves, and those who questionless
Their tale believe.

For I have loved, I freely own,
A score of times,
And woven, out of love alone,
A hundred rhymes.

Boys wil