from it wells.
It is not charm of form or face, Nor is it long contact of years That wins this mutual soul response, This spirit sympathy endears. A theory by time engraved Fro life, one mad impulse may sweep— A glance may into being start Vain hopes that nevermore may sleep.
The quiet touch when hands are clasped Would seemingly no sense impart, Yet may it wake a deathless theme And send it quivering to the heart. And thus may kindred spirits feel, Though tone of voice be never heard, The sweet impassioned eloquence, The magic of unspoken words.
O! TAKE AWAY YOUR FLOWERS.
O! take your pale camellias back; Their soft leaves, waxen white And odorless, too ill accord With my dark mood to-night.
I do not want your hot-house flowers, They're like the love you give— A something tame and passionless That breaths but does not live.
You take my hand as though you feared Your clasp were over-bold, Your kiss falls light at flake of snow, And just as calm and cold.
I'd rather have your hatred Than this lifeless loving claim, If your heart beat one throb faster At mention of my name.
Leave me, and bind those soulless leaves A calmer brow above; I cannot wear your flowers to-night— I do not want your love.
RAIN.
Drop! drop! drop! With a ceaseless patter fall, With a sobbing sound on the sodden ground, And the gray clouds over all. Dost weep of the parted summer, O, spirit of the rain? For the vanished hours and the faded flowers That never can come again?
The farmer smiles at they weeping, Hushing the whispering leaves, And dreams of days in the Autumn haze And the gathered golden sheaves. There's a voice of hope, a promise, In the sound of thy refrain, And as bright the hours and as fair the flowers That will come to thee again.
And yet in our lives, though knowing That we hold a scepter's sway, How oft we turn with the thoughts that burn, To weep on Autumn day. Turn from the hopeful future To weep in grief and pain, For the vanished hours and the faded flowers That never can come again.
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