You see we're tired, my heart and I.
We dealt with books, we trusted men,
And in our own blood drenched the pen,
As if such colors could not fly.
We walked too straight for fortune's end,
We loved too true to keep a friend;
At last we're tired, my heart and I.
How tired we feel, my heart and I!
We seem of no use in the world;
Our fancies hang gray and uncured
About men's eyes indifferently;
Our voice which thrilled you so, will let
You sleep; our teams are only wet:
What do we hear, my heart and I.
So tired, so tired, my heart and I!
It was not thus in that old time
When Ralph sat with me neath the lime
To watch the sunset from the sky.
"Dear love, you're looking tired," he said; I, smiling at him, shook my head: 'Tis now we're tired, my heart and I.
So tired, so tired, my heart and I !
Though now none takes me on his arm
To fold me close and kiss me warm
Till each quick breath end in a sigh
Of happy languor. Now, alone,
We lean upon this graveyard stone,
Uncheered, unkissed, my heart and I.
Tired out we are, my heart and I.
Suppose the world brought diadems
To tempt us, crusted with loose gems
Of powers and pleasures? Let it try.
We scarcely care to look at even
A pretty child, or God's blue heaven,
We feel so tired, my heart and I.
Yet who complains? My heart and I?
In this abundant earth no doubt
Is little room for things worn out:
Disdain them, break them, throw them by !
And if before the days grew rough
We once were loved, used,-well enough,
I think, we've fared. my heart and I.
HAVE a name, a little name,
Uncadenced for the ear,
Unhonored by ancestral claim,
Unsanctified by prayer and psalm
The solemn font anear.
It never did to pages wove
For gay romance, belong.
It never dedicate did move
As "Sacharissa," unto love-
"Orinda," unto song.
Though I write books, it will be read
Upon the leaves of none,
And afterwards, when I am dead,
Will ne'er be graved for sight or tread
Across my funeral stone.
This name, whoever chance to call,
Perhaps your smile may win.
Nay, do not smile! mine eyelids fall
Over mine eyes, and feel withal
The sudden tears within.
Is there a leaf that greenly grows
Where summer meadows bloom
But gathereth the winter snows,
And changeth to the hue of those,
If lasting till they come?
Is there a word, or jest, or game,
But time encrusteth round
With sad associate thoughts the same?
And so to me my very name
Assumes a mournful sound.
My brother gave that name to me
When we were children twain;
When names acquired baptismally
Were hard to utter as to see
That life had any pain.
No shade was on us then, save one
Of chestnuts from the hill
And through the word our laugh did run As part thereof. The mirth being done, He calls me by it still.
Nay, do not smile! I hear in it
What none of you can hear !
The talk upon the willow seat,
The bird and wind that did repeat
Around, our human cheer.
I hear the birthday's noisy bliss,
My sister's woodland glee,—
My father's praise, I did not miss,
When stooping down he cared to kiss
The poet at his knees;—
And voices, which to name me, aye
Their tenderest tones were keeping !-
To some I never more can say
An answer, till God wipes away
In heaven those drops of weeping.
My name to me a sadness wears;
No murmurs across my mind;
Now God be thanked for these thick tears, Which show, of those departed years,
Sweet memories left behind !
Now God be thanked for years enwrought
With love which softens yet!
Now God be thanked for every thought
Which is so tender it has caught
Earth's guerdon of regret !
Earth saddens, never shall remove,
Affections purely given;
And e'en that mortal grief shall prove
The immortality of love,
And brighten it with Heaven.
SWEET, thou hast trod on a heart.
Pass! there's a world full of men;
And women as fair as thou art
Must do such things now and then.
Thou only hast stepped unaware,—
Malice, not one can impute;
And why should a heart have been there
In the way of a fair woman's foot?
It was not a stone that could trip,
Nor was it a thorn that could rend:
Put up thy proud underlip!
'Twas merely the heart of a friend.
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