Whilst skies are blue and bright,
Whilst flowers are gay,

Whilst eyes that change ere night
Make glad the day,

Whilst yet the calm hours creep,
Dream thou-and from thy sleep
Then wake to weep.

Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822]

A FANCY FROM FONTENELLE

De mémoires de Roses on n'a point vu mourir le Jardinier

THE Rose in the garden slipped her bud,

And she laughed in the pride of her youthful blood,
As she thought of the Gardener standing by—
"He is old-so old! And he soon must die!"

The full Rose waxed in the warm June air,

And she spread and spread till her heart lay bare; And she laughed once more as she heard his tread— "He is older now! He will soon be dead!"

But the breeze of the morning blew, and found

That the leaves of the blown Rose strewed the ground; And he came at noon, that Gardener old,

And he raked them gently under the mold.

And I wove the thing to a random rhyme:

For the Rose is Beauty; the Gardener, Time.

Austin Dobson [1840

"OH, EARLIER SHALL THE ROSEBUDS BLOW"

OH, earlier shall the rosebuds blow,
In after years, those happier years,
And children weep, when we lie low,
Far fewer tears, far softer tears.

Oh, true shall boyish laughter ring,
Like tinkling chimes, in kinder times!

And merrier shall the maiden sing:

And I not there, and I not there.

"Sit Down, Sad Soul".

Like lightning in the summer night

Their mirth shall be, so quick and free;
And oh! the flash of their delight
I shall not see, I may not see.

In deeper dream, with wider range,

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Those eyes shall shine, but not on mine:
Unmoved, unblest, by worldly change,
The dead must rest, the dead shall rest.
William Johnson Cory [1823-1892]

THE DOVE

I HAD a dove, and the sweet dove died;
And I have thought it died of grieving:

O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied
With a silken thread of my own hand's weaving;
Sweet little red feet! why should you die—
Why would you leave me, sweet bird! why?
You lived alone in the forest tree,

Why, pretty thing! would you not live with me?
I kissed you oft and gave you white peas;
Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?

John Keats [1795-1821]

"SIT DOWN, SAD SOUL”

SIT down, sad soul, and count
The moments flying;
Come-tell the sweet amount
That's lost by sighing!
How many smiles?—a score?

Then laugh and count no more;

For day is dying!

Lie down, sad soul, and sleep,

And no more measure

The flight of time, nor weep

The loss of leisure;

But here, by this lone stream,

Lie down with us, and dream
Of starry treasure!

We dream; do thou the same;
We love for ever;

We laugh, yet few we shame-
The gentle, never.

Stay, then, till sorrow dies;
Then-hope and happy skies

Are thine for ever!

Bryan Waller Procter [1787-1874]

ON A TEAR

O THAT the chemist's magic art

Could crystallize this sacred treasure!
Long should it glitter near my heart,
A secret source of pensive pleasure.

The little brilliant, ere it fell,

Its luster caught from Chloe's eye; Then, trembling, left its coral cell,— The spring of Sensibility!

Sweet drop of pure and pearly light!
In thee the rays of Virtue shine,
More calmly clear, more mildly bright,
Than any gem that gilds the mine.

Benign restorer of the soul!

Who ever fliest to bring relief, When first we feel the rude control Of Love or Pity, Joy or Grief.

The sage's and the poet's theme,
In every clime, in every age,
Thou charm'st in Fancy's idle dream,
In Reason's philosophic page.

That very law which molds a tear,
And bids it trickle from its source,-

That law preserves the earth a sphere,
And guides the planets in their course.
Samuel Rogers [1763-1855]

The Rosary of My Tears

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THE ROSARY OF MY TEARS

SOME reckon their age by years,

Some measure their life by art;

But some tell their days by the flow of their tears,
And their lives by the moans of their heart.

The dials of earth may show

The length, not the depth, of years—

Few or many they come, few or many they go,
But time is best measured by tears.

Ah! not by the silver gray

That creeps through the sunny hair,

And not by the scenes that we pass on our way,
And not by the furrows the fingers of care

On forehead and face have made,—

Not so do we count our years;

Not by the sun of the earth, but the shade
Of our souls, and the fall of our tears.

For the young are oft-times old,

Though their brows be bright and fair;

While their blood beats warm, their hearts are cold— O'er them the spring-but winter is there;

And the old are oft-times young

When their hair is thin and white;

And they sing in age, as in youth they sung,
And they laugh, for their cross was light.

But, bead by bead, I tell

The rosary of my years;

From a cross to a cross they lead; 'tis well,
And they're blest with a blessing of tears.

Better a day of strife

Than a century of sleep;

Give me instead of a long stream of life

The tempests and tears of the deep.

A thousand joys may foam

On the billows of all the years;

But never the foam brings the lone back home,—

He reaches the haven through tears.

Abram J. Ryan [1839-1888]

ENDURANCE

How much the heart may bear, and yet not break!
How much the flesh may suffer, and not die!

I question much if any pain or ache

Of soul or body brings our end more nigh:
Death chooses his own time; till that is sworn,
All evils may be borne.

We shrink and shudder at the surgeon's knife,
Each nerve recoiling from the cruel steel
Whose edge seems searching for the quivering life;
Yet to our sense the bitter pangs reveal,
That still, although the trembling flesh be torn,
This also can be borne.

We see a sorrow rising in our way,

And try to flee from the approaching ill;

We seek some small escape: we weep and pray;
But when the blow falls, then our hearts are still;
Not that the pain is of its sharpness shorn,

But that it can be borne.

We wind our life about another life;

We hold it closer, dearer than our own: Anon it faints and fails in deathly strife,

Leaving us stunned and stricken and alone;
But ah! we do not die with those we mourn,—
This also can be borne.

Behold, we live through all things,-famine, thirst,
Bereavement, pain; all grief and misery,

All woe and sorrow; life inflicts its worst

On soul and body, but we can not die.

Though we be sick, and tired, and faint, and worn,Lo, all things can be borne!

Elizabeth Akers [1832-1911]