gone astray.

We met in an everyday style;
Unmoved by a tremor or start;
Shook hands, smiled a commonplace smile;
(With a happy new love in each heart),
And I thought you the homeliest man
As you awkwardly picked up my fan!

And I know (or I haven't a doubt)
Though you did not say so to my face,
That you thought I was growing too stout:
I, once your ideal of grace.
And ere the encounter was o'er
Each voted the other a bore.

What a proof that fond passion can die,
In this prosaic meeting we had!
Now, ought we to laugh or to cry--
Was it sorrowful, or was it sad?
'Tis a puzzle not worthy our time,
So let's give it up--with this rhyme.

BURNED OUT

Blow out the light: there is no oil to feed it:
That dim blue light unworthy of the name.
Better to sit with folded hands, I say,
And wait for night to pass, and bring the day,
Than to depend upon that flickering flame.

Take back your vow: there is no love to bind it:
Take back this little shining, golden thing.
Better to walk on bravely all alone,
Than strive to hold up, or retain our own,
By soulless pledge, or fetter of a ring.

When first the lamp was lit, too high you turned it;
The oil was wasted in a blinding blaze.
Your passion was too ardent in the start--
Set by the lamp: farewell. God gird the heart
Through darkened hours, and lone and loveless ways.

ONLY A GLOVE

Only a glove that has touched her fingers,
But it seems to me something half divine.
A delicate fragrance about it lingers,
And it stirs my blood like wine--
Yes, thrills and warms me like wine.

So well I remember the night she wore it--
How I held the hand in its dainty glove,
And whispered sweetly as I leaned o'er it--
Whispered a tale of love--
A story of my mad love.

There was mirth, and music, and light and laughter,
The viols played and the dancers whirled.
We were part of it all--but a moment after
Were alone in love's fair world--
Alone in God's own world.

But now of that night of glow and splendour,
Of happy hope and beautiful love,
Of youthful dreams that were sweetly tender,
There is nothing left but a glove,
Nothing but this one glove.

REMINDERS

When in the early dawn I hear the thrushes,
And like a flood of waters o'er my heart
The memory of another summer rushes,
How can I rise up, and perform my part?

When in the languid eve I hear the wailing