A Little Comedy

Is the world the same, do you think, my dear,
As when we walked by the sea together,
And the white caps danced and the cliffs rose sheer,
And we were glad in the autumn weather?

You played at loving that day, my dear,—
How well you told me your tender story,—
And I made answer, with smile and tear,
While the sky was flushed with the sunset's glory.

Now I shut my eyes, and I see, my dear,
That far-off path by the surging ocean,—
I shut my eyes, and I seem to hear
Your voice surmounting the tide's commotion.

It was but a comedy slight, my dear,—
Why should its memory come to vex me?
Can it be I am longing that you should appear
And play it again? My thoughts perplex me.

'Tis the sea and the shore that I miss, my dear,—
The sea and the shore, and the sunset's glory:
Or would these be nothing without you near,
To murmur again that fond, old story?

I know you now but too well, my dear,—
With your heart as light as a wind-blown feather,—
Yet somehow the world seems cold and drear
Without your acting, this autumn weather.
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