Poems and sonnets of Louise Chandler Moulton / [by Louise Chandler Moulton] [electronic text]

[RONDELS.]

THE SPRING IS HERE.

I MISS you, sweet! The spring is here; The young grass trembles on the leas; The violet's breath enchants the breeze; And the blue sky bends low and near.

Home-coming birds, with carol clear, Make their new nests in budding trees— I miss you, sweet, now spring is here, And young grass trembles on the leas.

You were my Spring, and spring is dear; Without you can the May-time please? Let lavish June withhold her fees, And winter reign throughout the year— I miss you, sweet, though spring is here.

EASTER SUNDAY.

ON Easter morn she kneels and prays, A gentle saint in baby blue— Forgive her that her hat is new, And all those dear, coquettish ways.

Her loyal soul pure tribute pays To that high throne where prayers are due, At Easter, when she kneels and prays, A gentle saint in baby blue.

So innocent her girlish days She scarcely knows what sins to rue, What pard'ning grace from Heaven to sue, As, glad with morning's gladdest rays, A gentle saint, she kneels and prays.

HEART, SAD HEART.

HEART, sad heart, for what are you pleading? The sun has set, and the night is cold; To go on hoping were over bold; Dead is the fire for want of feeding.

Tears are keeping your eyes from reading The old, old story, so often told— Heart, sad heart, for what are you pleading? The sun has set, and the night is cold.

The wind and the rain in the dark are breeding Storms to sweep over valley and wold; Love, the outcast, with longing bold, Clamors and prays to a power unheeding. Heart, sad heart, for what are you pleading?

TWO RED ROSES.

TO M. R. L.

I WISH they could live forever,— These roses my darling brought! Their breath from her lips they caught, And still with her touch they quiver.

As bright as their bright sweet giver, With a charm like her own charm fraught, I wish they could live forever,— These roses my darling brought!

But loving from loved must sever, And hoping must come to nought— I know what the years have taught; Yet I wish they could live forever,— These roses my darling brought.

THE SHADOW DANCE.

SHE sees her image in the glass,— How fair a thing to gaze upon! She lingers while the moments run, With happy thoughts that come and pass,

Like winds across the meadow grass When the young June is just begun: She sees her image in the glass,—How fair a thing to gaze upon!

What wealth of gold the skies amass! How glad are all things 'neath the sun! How true the love her love has won! She recks not that this hour will pass; She sees her image in the glass.

IN FEBRUARY.

And the second month of the yearPuts heart in the earth again.

P. B. MARSTON.

ALREADY the feet of the Winter fly, And the pulse of the Earth begins to leap, Waking up from her frozen sleep, And knowing the beautiful Spring is nigh.

Good Saint Valentine wanders by, Pausing his festival gay to keep; Already the feet of the Winter fly, And the pulse of the Earth begins to leap.

To life she wakes; and a smile and a sigh— Language the scoffer holds so cheap—Thrill her with melody dear and deep. Spring, with its mating time is nigh; Already the feet of the Winter fly, And the pulse of the Earth begins to leap.

THE OLD BEAU.

HE was a gay deceiver when The century was young, they say, And triumphed over other men, And wooed the girls, and had his way.

No maiden ever said him nay; No rival ever crossed him then; And painters vied to paint him when The century was young, they say.

Now the new dogs must have their day; And the old beau has found that when He pleads things go another way, And lonely 'mong the younger men, He hears their heartless laughter when He boasts about that other day.

TO JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER,

ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY.

POET and friend, beloved of us so long, What shall we wish thee on thy natal day? What rhymes and roses strew along thy way,— Thine, unto whom all suffrages belong?

Through the dark night we caught thy thrilling song, Singer and prophet of the higher way: Poet and friend beloved of us so long, What shall we wish thee on thy natal day?

Through all thy life the foe of every wrong, Strong of heart to labor, high of soul to pray, Guide to recall when errant footsteps stray; What blessed memories round thy dear name throng! Poet and friend, beloved of us so long, God bless and keep thee on thy natal day!