Oh, to call back the days that are not!
My eyes were blinded, your words were few:
Do you know the truth now, up in heaven,
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true?
I never was worthy of you, Douglas;
Not half worthy the like of you:
Now all men beside seem to me like shadows--
I love you, Douglas, tender and true.
Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas,
Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew;
As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas,
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true!
DINAH MARIA MCLOCK CRAIK.
AFTER SUMMER.
We'll not weep for summer over,--
No, not we:
Strew above his head the clover,--
Let him be!
Other eyes may weep his dying,
Shed their tears
There upon him, where he's lying
With his peers.
Unto some of them he proffered
Gifts most sweet;
For our hearts a grave he offered,--
Was this meet?
All our fond hopes, praying, perished
In his wrath,--
All the lovely dreams we cherished
Strewed his path.
Shall we in our tombs, I wonder,
Far apart,
Sundered wide as seas can sunder
Heart from heart,
Dream at all of all the sorrows
That were ours,--
Bitter nights, more bitter morrows;
Poison-flowers
Summer gathered, as in madness,
Saying, "See,
These are yours, in place of gladness,--
Gifts from me"?
Nay, the rest that will be ours
Is supreme,
And below the poppy flowers
Steals no dream.
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