I know I have been happiest at your side; 
But what is done, is done, and all’s to be. 
And small the good, to linger dolefully,—
Gaily it lived, and gallantly it died.
I will not make you songs of hearts denied, 
And you, being man, would have no tears of me, 
And should I offer you fidelity, 
You’d be, I think, a little terrified. 

Yet this the need of woman, this her curse:
To range her little gifts, and give, and give, 
Because the throb of giving’s sweet to bear. 
To you, who never begged me vows or verse, 
My gift shall be my absence, while I live; 
But after that, my dear, I cannot swear. 

Leave me to my lonely pillow.
    Go, and take your silly posies;
Who has vowed to wear the willow
    Looks a fool, tricked out in roses.

Who are you, my lad, to ease me?
    Leave your pretty words unspoken.
Tinkling echoes little please me,
    Now my heart is freshly broken.

Over young are you to guide me,
    And your blood is slow and sleeping.
If you must, then sit beside me....
    Tell me, why have I been weeping?

THERE’S a place I know where the birds swing low,
       And wayward vines go roaming,
Where the lilacs nod, and a marble god
    Is pale, in scented gloaming.
And at sunset there comes a lady fair
    Whose eyes are deep with yearning.
By an old, old gate does the lady wait
    Her own true love’s returning.

But the days go by, and the lilacs die,
    And trembling birds seek cover;
Yet the lady stands, with her long white hands
    Held out to greet her lover.
And it’s there she’ll stay till the shadowy day
    A monument they grave her.
She will always wait by the same old gate,––
    The gate her true love gave her.

She stands
In the quiet darkness,
This troubled woman,
Bowed by
Weariness and pain, 
Like an
Autumn flower
In the frozen rain. 
Like a 
Wind-blown autumn flower
That never lifts its head 
Again. 

We shall have our little day.
Take my hand and travel still
Round and round the little way,
Up and down the little hill.

It is good to love again;
Scan the renovated skies,
Dip and drive the idling pen,
Sweetly tint the paling lies.

Trace the dripping, piercèd heart,
Speak the fair, insistent verse,
Vow to God, and slip apart,
Little better, little worse.

Would we need not know before
How shall end this prettiness;
One of us must love the more,
One of us shall love the less.

Thus it is, and so it goes;
We shall have our day, my dear.
Where, unwilling, dies the rose
Buds the new, another year.