The Fire At Tranter Sweatley's
They had long met o’ Zundays her true love and she And at junketings, maypoles, and flings; But she bode wi’ a thirtover uncle, and he Swore by noon and by night that her
Thought Of Ph – a At News Of Her Death
NOT a line of her writing have I, Not a thread of her hair, No mark of her late time as dame in her dwelling, whereby I may picture her there; And in vain
Valenciennes
By Corporal Tullidge. See “The Trumpet-Major” In Memory of S. C. (Pensioner). Died 184- WE trenched, we trumpeted and drummed, And from our mortars tons of iron hummed Ath’art the ditch, the month we
Lines
Spoken by Miss Ada Rehan at the Lyceum Theatre, July 23, 1890, at a Performance on behalf of Lady Jeune’s Holiday Fund for City Children. BEFORE we part to alien thoughts and aims, Permit
Her Initals
UPON a poet’s page I wrote Of old two letters of her name; Part seemed she of the effulgent thought Whence that high singer’s rapture came. When now I turn the leaf the same
I Look Into My Glass
I look into my glass, And view my wasting skin, And say, “Would God it came to pass My heart had shrunk as thin!” For then, I, undistrest By hearts grown cold to me,
Mad Judy
When the hamlet hailed a birth Judy used to cry: When she heard our christening mirth She would kneel and sigh. She was crazed, we knew, and we Humoured her infirmity. When the daughters
Heiress And Architect
For A. W. B. SHE sought the Studios, beckoning to her side An arch-designer, for she planned to build. He was of wise contrivance, deeply skilled In every intervolve of high and wide Well
The Dream-Follower
A dream of mine flew over the mead To the halls where my old Love reigns; And it drew me on to follow its lead: And I stood at her window-panes; And I saw
A Meeting With Despair
AS evening shaped I found me on a moor Which sight could scarce sustain: The black lean land, of featureless contour, Was like a tract in pain. “This scene, like my own life,” I
The Bullfinches
Bother Bulleys, let us sing From the dawn till evening! – For we know not that we go not When the day’s pale pinions fold Unto those who sang of old. When I flew
Long Plighted
Is it worth while, dear, now, To call for bells, and sally forth arrayed For marriage-rites discussed, decried, delayed So many years? Is it worth while, dear, now, To stir desire for old fond
A Christmas Ghost Story
South of the Line, inland from far Durban, A mouldering soldier lies your countryman. Awry and doubled up are his gray bones, And on the breeze his puzzled phantom moans Nightly to clear Canopus:
The Tenant-For-Life
The sun said, watching my watering-pot “Some morn you’ll pass away; These flowers and plants I parch up hot – Who’ll water them that day? “Those banks and beds whose shape your eye Has
Unknowing
WHEN, soul in soul reflected, We breathed an жthered air, When we neglected All things elsewhere, And left the friendly friendless To keep our love aglow, We deemed it endless… We did not know!