Auld Robin Gray And so I prayed her, weeping, that she bore To soothe myself a little with her sight, Then she who loveth me no more, maybe Yea, so that I might call her mine again. Chained the fair wasted white of love's domain, Oh! the vain joy it is to see her lie Beside me once again; beyond release, 989 Arthur O'Shaughnessy [1844-1881] AULD ROBIN GRAY WHEN the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame, And a' the warld to rest are gane, The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e, While my gudeman lies sound by me. Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride; But saving a croun he had naething else beside: To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea; And the croun and the pund were baith for me. He hadna been awa' a week but only twa, When my father brak his arm, and the kye was stown awa’; My mother she fell sick, and my Jamie at the sea And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin' me. My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin; I toiled day and night, but their bread I couldna win; Auld Rob maintained them baith, and wi' tears in his e'e Said, "Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me!" My heart it said nay; I looked for Jamie back; My father urged me sair: my mother didna speak; But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break: They gi'ed him my hand, though my heart was in the sea; Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me. I hadna been a wife a week but only four, O, sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say; I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin; Anne Barnard [1750-1825] LOST LIGHT My heart is chilled and my pulse is slow, I sit here dreaming them through and through, A Sigh The sweet, sweet days when our love was new, Blest or wretched, fettered or free, Ever and hopelessly. Oh, how often at day's decline I pushed from my window the curtaining vine, Flashed from your heart to mine. Once more the starlight is silvering all; The night bird warbles his madrigal, But summers will vanish and years will wane, My heart is heavy, my heart is old, I watch no longer your curtain's fold; The window is dark and the night is cold, 991 Elizabeth Akers [1832-1911] A SIGH It was nothing but a rose I gave her, Nothing but a rose Any wind might rob of half its savor, Any wind that blows. When she took it from my trembling fingers With a hand as chill Ah, the flying touch upon them lingers, Withered, faded, pressed between the pages, Crumpled fold on fold,— Once it lay upon her breast, and ages Cannot make it old! Harriet Prescott Spofford [1835 HEREAFTER LOVE, when all the years are silent, vanished quite and laid to rest, When you and I are sleeping, folded breathless breast to breast, When no morrow is before us, and the long grass tosses o'er us, And our grave remains forgotten, or by alien footsteps pressed Still that love of ours will linger, that great love enrich the earth, Sunshine in the heavenly azure, breezes blowing joyous mirth; Fragrance fanning off from flowers, melody of summer showers, Sparkle of the spicy wood-fires round the happy autumn hearth. That's our love. But you and I, dear-shall we linger with it yet, Mingled in one dew-drop, tangled in one sunbeam's golden net On the violet's purple bosom, I the sheen, but you the blos som, Stream on sunset winds, and be the haze with which some hill is wet? Endymion 993 Or, beloved-if ascending-when we have endowed the world With the best bloom of our being, whither will our way be whirled, Through what vast and starry spaces, toward what awful, holy places, With a white light on our faces, spirit over spirit furled? Only this our yearning answers: wheresoe'er that way defile, Not a film shall part us through the eons of that mighty while, In the fair eternal weather, even as phantoms still together, Floating, floating, one forever, in the light of God's great smile. Harriet Prescott Spofford [1835 ENDYMION THE apple trees are hung with gold, The sheep lie bleating in the fold, I know he will come back to me. O rising moon! O Lady moon! Be you my lover's sentinel, You cannot choose but know him well, For he is shod with purple shoon, You cannot choose but know my love, For he a shepherd's crook doth bear, And he is soft as any dove, And brown and curly is his hair. The turtle now has ceased to call Upon her crimson-footed groom, The violet hills are lost in gloom. |