Of half-forgotten years, fall on our ways

Now drear, a strain of song, a June-blown rose.

Ah, sweet, so sweet unto a heart that knows

The memory of once-remembered Mays!

Only a moment’s interlude, and yet

How the heart quaffs the draught that thrills and thrills

Its soul, finding again youth’s mysteries.

What matter if tomorrow we forget—

Today the stillness of the sun-lit hills

And the low drowsy hum of summer bees!

To You, Dear Heart

To you, dear heart, whom I have never known

I sing my little songs all wonderingly

That sometime you may hear,—the sweet atone

For all the years and years of search alone—

That sometime you may hear and come to me.

So on I go a-singing down my way

With ne’er a thought of all the journey past,

For this I know—that on one perfect day

When everything is, oh, so glad and gay,

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