I know no miracle so manifest
As that you wrought upon me yesterday,
Filling with love my chalice of pure clay
From fragrant fountains of your own dear breast. ...
Late, late last night, when the whole world slept,
Along to the garden of dreams I crept.
And I pulled the bell of an old, old house
Where the moon dipped down like a little white mouse. ...
How strangely lone unto myself I grow,
Listening and looking for I know not what;
Turning my head with terror cold and hot
At wandering whispers of a music low! ...
O my Beloved, when to-day you said:
â??All this must perish and we two will go
Soulless and senseless, to the dust below!â?
I could but smile and fondle your dear head. ...
Itâ??s holiday time on the hollyhock hills,
And I wish you would come with me laddie-love, now,
The butterfly-bells, from the Folly-fool rills,
Will ring if you listen, and drop on your brow. ...
Oh! Bury me in books when I am dead,
Fair quarto leaves of ivory and gold,
And silk octavos, bound in brown and red,
That tales of love and chivalry unfold. ...
(With apologies to the singer of the “Song of the Banjo”.)
I'm a homely little bit of tin and bone;
I'm beloved by the Legion of the Lost;
I haven't got a “vox humana” tone,
And a dime or two will satisfy my cost.
I don't attempt your high-falutin' flights;
I am more or less uncertain on the key;
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