There! Little girl; don't cry! They have broken your heart, I know; And the rainbow gleams Of your youthful dreams Are things of the long ago; But heaven holds all for which you sigh--. There! Little girl; don't cry! _A Scrawl_ I want to sing something-- but this is all-- I try and I try, but the rhymes are dull As though they were damp, and the echoes fall Limp and unlovable. Words will not say what I yearn to say-- They will not walk as I want them to, But they stumble and fall in the path of the way Of my telling my love for you. Simply take what the scrawl is worth-- Knowing I love you as sun the sod On the ripening side of the great round earth That swings in the smile of God. _Away_ I cannot say, and I will not say That he is dead--. He is just away! With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand He has wandered into an unknown land, And left us dreaming how very fair It needs must be, since he lingers there. And you-- O you, who the wildest yearn For the old-time step and the glad return--, Think of him faring on, as dear In the love of There as the love of Here; And loyal still, as he gave the blows Of his warrior-strength to his country's foes--. Mild and gentle, as he was brave--, When the sweetest love of his life he gave To simple things--: Where the violets grew Blue as the eyes they were likened to, The touches of his hands have strayed As reverently as his lips have prayed: When the little brown thrush that harshly chirred Was dear to him as the mocking-bird; And he pitied as much as a man in pain A writhing honey-bee wet with rain--. Think of him still as the same, I say: He is not dead-- he is just away! _Who Bides His Time_ Who bides his time, and day by day Faces defeat full patiently, And lifts a mirthful roundelay, However poor his fortunes be--, He will not fail in any qualm Of poverty-- the paltry dime It will grow golden in his palm, Who bides his time. Who bides his time-- he tastes the sweet Of honey in the saltest tear; And though he fares with slowest feet, Joy runs to meet him, drawing near; The birds are heralds of his cause; And like a never-ending rhyme, The roadsides bloom in his applause, Who bides his time. Who bides his time, and fevers not In the hot race that none achieves, Shall wear cool-wreathen laurel, wrought With crimson berries in the leaves; And he shall reign a goodly king, And sway his hand o'er every clime, With peace writ on his signet-ring, Who bides his time. _From the Headboard of a Grave in Paraguay_ A troth, and a grief, and a blessing, Disguised them and came this way--, And one was a promise, and one was a doubt, And one was a rainy day. And they met betimes with this maiden, And the promise it spake and lied, And the doubt it gibbered and hugged itself, And the rainy day-- she died. _Laughter Holding Both His Sides_