Once in the dear dead days beyond recall, When on the world the mists began to fall,
Out of the dreams that rose in happy throng Low to our hearts Love sung an old sweet song;
And in the dusk where fell the firelight gleam, Softly it wove itself into our dream.
Just a song at twilight, when the lights are low, And the flick'ring shadows
softly come and go, Tho' the heart he weary, sad the day and long,
Still to us at twilight comes Love's old song, comes Love's old sweet song.
Even today we hear Love's song of yore, Deep in our hearts it dwells forever more

On summer afternoons I sit
Quiescent by you in the park,
And idly watch the sunbeams gild
And tint the ash-trees' bark.

Or else I watch the squirrels frisk
And chaffer in the grassy lane;
And all the while I mark your voice
Breaking with love and pain.

I know a woman who would give
Her chance of heaven to take my place;
To see the love-light in your eyes,
The love-glow on your face!

And there's a man whose lightest word
Can set my chilly blood afire;
Fulfillment of his least behest
Defines my life's desire.

An old silver church in a forest
Is my love for you
The trees around it
Are words that I have stolen from your heart.
An old silver bell, the last smile you gave,
Hangs at the top of my church.
It rings only when you come through the forest
And stand beside it.
And then, it has no need for ringing,
For your smile takes its place.

The rhythm of life
Is a jazz rhythm,
Honey.
The gods are laughing at us.

The broken heart of love,
The weary, weary heart of pain,—
Overtones,
Undertones,
To the rumble of street cars,
To the swish of rain.

Lenox Avenue,
Honey.
Midnight,
And the gods are laughing at us.

I

O H , wilt thou have my hand, Dear, to lie along in thine?
As a little stone in a running stream, it seems to lie and pine.
Now drop the poor pale hand, Dear, unfit to plight with thine.

II

Oh, wilt thou have my cheek, Dear, drawn closer to thine own?
My cheek is white, my cheek is worn, by many a tear run down.
Now leave a little space, Dear, lest it should wet thine own.


Oh, must thou have my soul, Dear, commingled with thy soul?—
Red grows the cheek, and warm the hand; the part is in the whole:

Oh, when shall I see Jesus,
And reign with him above?
And from the flowing fountain,
Drink everlasting love.

When shall I be delivered
From this vain world of sin?
And with my blessed Jesus,
Drink endless pleasures in.

Oh! had I wings I would fly away and be at rest,
And I'd praise God in his bright abode.

Oh promise me that some day you and
I will take our love together to some sky, Where
we can be alone and faith renew, and find the hollows where those flowers
grew, those first sweet violets of early spring, Which
come in whispers, thrill us both, and sing of love unspeakable that
is to be; Oh promise me, oh promise me!
Oh promise me, that you will take my
hand, the most unworthy in this lonely
land, and let me sit beside you, in your eyes
Seeing the vision of our paradise, Hearing God's message while the
organ rolls, its mighty music to our

"O Polly, my dear Polly, the war has now begun
And I must march away by the beating of the drum.
Go dress yourself in your best and come along with me,
I'll take you to the war, my love, in the Isle of Germany.'

"O Billy, my dear Billy, listen to what I say.
My feet they are so very sore I cannot march away.
Besides, my dearest Billy, I am with child by thee;
I'm not fitting for the war, my love, in the Isle of Germany.'

"I'll buy you a horse, my love, my Polly, you shall ride
And all my delight shall be a-walking by your side.

Oh never weep for love that's dead
Since love is seldom true
But changes his fashion from blue to red,
From brightest red to blue,
And love was born to an early death
And is so seldom true.

Then harbour no smile on your bonny face
To win the deepest sigh.
The fairest words on truest lips
Pass on and surely die,
And you will stand alone, my dear,
When wintry winds draw nigh.

Sweet, never weep for what cannot be,
For this God has not given.
If the merest dream of love were true
Then, sweet, we should be in heaven,

Oh , if the world were mine, Love,
I'd give the world for thee!
Alas! there is no sign, Love,
Of that contingency.

Were I a king, — which isn't
To be considered now, —
A diadem had glistened
Upon that lovely brow.

Had fame with laurels crowned me, —
She hasn't, up to date, —
Nor time nor change had found me
To love and thee ingrate.

If Death threw down his gage, Love,
Though life is dear to me,
I'd die, e'ndash of old age, Love,
To win a smile from thee.

But being poor, we part, dear,