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Thou knowest no toil for raiment,
Yet we of grosser stature
Not by my worst, when dull or bitterly The mind moved, and the evil in my blood Worked words of anger thy meek will
withstood, Not by the hours I sinned 'gainst love and
thee, Oh, not by these, dear love, remember me. First in our mind live things that perfect be, All shapes of joy or beauty, — day's low
light Dying along the seaward edge of night, The first sweet violet, music's ecstasy, Making the heart leap, - - so remember me. For I would have thy mind and memory A chamber of sweet sounds and fragrances. Let the ill pass : its power to hurt was less Than joy's to bless us. I remember thee By thy first kiss ; Oh, thus remember me ! There was an hour wherein a god's degree And stature seemed to clothe me, and I
stood Supremely strong, and high, and great, and
good : Oh, by that hour, when all I aimed to be I did appear, by that remember me !
Within our souls are folden
Yet oft, when day is gleaming
TO A DESOLATE FRIEND
O FRIEND, like some cold wind to-day
Frances Isabel Parnell
When the nations ope for thee their
queenly circle, as a sweet new sister SHALL mine eyes behold thy glory, O my
hail thee, country? Shall mine eyes behold Shall these lips be sealed in callous death thy glory?
and silence, that have known but to Or shall the darkness close around them, bewail tbee?
ere the sun-blaze break at last upon
Shall the ear be deaf that only loved thy And my heart should toss within the shroud
praises, when all men their tribute and quiver as a captive dreamer bring thee?
tosses. Shall the mouth be clay that sang thee in
thy squalor, when all poets' mouths I should turn and rend the cere-clothes shall sing thee?
round me, giant sinews I should bor
Ah, the harpings and the salvos and the Crying, “O my brothers, I have also
shoutings of thy exiled sons return- loved her in her loneliness and sor
and the grave-damps should not “ Let me join with you the jubilant pro-
cession ; let me chant with you her
story ; Ah, the tramp of feet victorious! I should Then contented I shall go back to the hear them 'mid the shamrocks and
shamrocks, now mine eyes have seen the mosses,
Or I am like a stream that flows
In morning lands, in distant hills ;
And mixed with memories not my own
A POET of one mood in all my lays,