We were waiting at the station,
Soon the cars would surely start,
Hearts beat high with love's emotion,
For we knew we soon must part.
On dark lashes seemed to glisten
Tiny crystal tear drops shine;
To the fond voice glad I listen,
While dear eyes look into mine.

And the last words quickly spoken,
Darling still to me be true,
Let your promise be unbroken,
For I will be true to you.
Once I felt the soft hand tremble,
And my heart throbbed with its bliss;
Lips that rose-buds did resemble,
Met in one last loving kiss.

My lad is ever gone from me.
The roads all beckon him away;
And all day long, and every day,
The wide world bids him come and see!
Unto my lad, the Spring we met
Was no more fair than any spring;—
A listless bud, a wayside thing
To strip of petals and forget
At some clear call from out a pine.
My lad, he is no lad of mine:
I think I shall not ever set
My eyes on his, again.—And yet,
My heart like some dull talking-bird
Learns not from sorrow, but must say
Over and over, one poor word
Against the throb of sad or glad;—

O me, O me, what frugal cheer
My love doth feed upon!
A touch, a ray, that is not here,
A shadow that is gone:

A dream of breath that might be near,
An inly-echoed tone,
The thought that one may think me dear,
The place where one was known,

The tremor of a banished fear,
An ill that was not done—
O me, O me, what frugal cheer
My love doth feed upon!

Her passions the shy violet
From Hafiz never hides;
Love-longings of the raptured bird
The bird to him confides.

Test of the poet is knowledge of love,
For Eros is older than Saturn or Jove;
Never was poet, of late or of yore,
Who was not tremulous with love-lore.

Love on his errand bound to go
Can swim the flood, and wade through snow,
Where way is none, 't will creep and wind
And eat through Alps its home to find.

Coral and clear emerald,
And amber from the sea,
Lilac-coloured amethyst,
Chalcedony;
The lovely Spirit of Air
Floats on a cloud and doth ride,
Clad in the beauties of earth
Like a bride.

So doth she haunt me; and words
Tell but a tithe of the tale.
Sings all the sweetness of Spring
Even in the nightingale?
Nay, but with echoes she cries
Of the valley of love;
Dews on the thorns at her feet,
And darkness above.

I loved the wild spots far from town
& mole hills laced with time
Where birds build free from idle clown
& blossoms live their time

When fair Amelia's artless smiles,
At first my youthful bosom fir'd;
I look'd and sigh'd from day to day,
But durst not say that I admir'd.

Yet what my tongue could not reveal,
True love's expressive looks betray'd,
Tir'd with restraint, at length I own'd
My passion to the lovely maid.

You should have told me this before,
'Tis now too late, she said, and sigh'd,
Last night arriv'd a lover gay,
My father means me for his bride.

When next my wand'ring heart was caught
By bright Eliza's sparkling eyes,

The distant hills are blue as lips of death;
Between myself and them the hot swamps steam
In fetid curls, which, in the twilight, seem
Like gathering phantoms waiting for my breath;

While in the August heat with chattering teeth
I sit, and icy limbs, and let the stream
Of recollection flow in a dull dream;
Or weave, with marish blooms, my own death-wreath.

O Love that hast undone me, and through whom
I waste in this Maremma: King of Sighs,
Behold thy handmaid in her heavy doom!

Send me thy brother Death who so oft flies