The Jane Price of Swansea
Thirty days out,
If certain folks that I know well
Should come to me their woes to tell
Sounds of the seas grow fainter, Sounds of the sands have sped;
We part, and thou art mine no more!
I go through seas never sought before,
Do you remember once, in Paris of glad faces,
The night we wandered off under the third moon's rays
I suppose, while strong passion abates,
it might be a small relief from her pain:
Brown for the autumn leaves,
Green for the tree;
As the locusts sang in the twilight heat
The Sun no longer baked the city-street,
The schools marched in procession in happiness and pride,
The city bands before them, the soldiers marched beside;
She loves me-loves me not.
My hands I pick
When for me this end has come and I am dead,
and the little voluble, chattering daws of men
"\All its innocent thoughts,
Like rose leaves scattered.\"--
He little knew the sorrow that was in his vacant
chair;
O SAY what is that thing call’d Light,
Which I must ne’er enjoy;
Out in the grey cheerless chill of the morning light,
Out on the track where the night shades still lurk,
Old man Time, 'e's wrote his log up in the wrinkles on my brow,
And there ain't that much about me as a girl 'ud take to now;
Written Under The Impression That The Author Would Soon Die.
Have you seen the bush by moonlight, from the train, go running by?
Blackened log and stump and sapling, ghostly trees all dead and dry;
Ay, workman, make me a dream,
A dream for my love.
Las campanas, el sol, el cielo claro
me llenan de tristeza, y en los ojos
I stood at eve, as the sun went down, by a grave where a woman lies,
Who lured men's souls to the shores of sin with the light of h
A common grave be then my lot,
In this world
the living grow fewer,
ALL silent is the room,
There is no stir of breath,
Mother has painted the coffin brightly.
The tiny one sleeps in Sunday attire.
A little soul scarce fledged for earth
Takes wing with heaven again for goal
Come you up from southward, oh, come you there — away? And saw you not my ship there that's late now many a day?
Silent the ruined house, slowly rotting and falling;
Empty the great barns, dumb and lifeless and blind;
When against earth a wooden heel
Clicks as loud as stone on steel,
There's not a trace of cloud
Now-and she
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