Young is her cheek, and her throat,

With love the word for each note.

  Young is her cheek and her throat; Her eyes have the smile o' May. And love is the word for each note In the song of my life to-day.  

Her eyes have the smile o' May.

In the song of my life to-day.

  Her eyes have the smile o' May; Her heart is the heart of a dove, And the song of my life to-day Is love, beautiful love.  

Her heart is the heart of a dove,

Is love, beautiful love.

  Her heart is the heart of a dove, Ah, would it but fly to my breast Where lone, beautiful love, Has made it a downy nest. 

Ah, would it but fly to my breast

Has made it a downy nest.

  Ah, would she but fly to my breast, My love who is young, so young; I have made her a downy nest And life is a song to be sung.  

My love who is young, so young;

And life is a song to be sung.

 

 THREE WOMEN. 

 

 I. 

 A dull little station, a man with the eye Of a dreamer; a bevy of girls moving by; A swift moving train and a hot Summer sun, The curtain goes up, and our play is begun. The drama of passion, of sorrow, of strife, Which always is billed for the theatre Life. It runs on forever, from year unto year, With scarcely a change when new actors appear. It is old as the world is—far older in truth, For the world is a crude little planet of youth. And back in the eras before it was formed, The passions of hearts through the Universe 

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