_The Small Hours_ No more my little song comes back; And now of nights I lay My head on down, to watch the black And wait the unfailing gray. Oh, sad are winter nights, and slow; And sad's a song that's dumb; And sad it is to lie and know Another dawn will come. _The False Friends_ They laid their hands upon my head, They stroked my cheek and brow; And time could heal a hurt, they said, And time could dim a vow. And they were pitiful and mild Who whispered to me then, "The heart that breaks in April, child, Will mend in May again." Oh, many a mended heart they knew, So old they were, and wise. And little did they have to do To come to me with lies! Who flings me silly talk of May Shall meet a bitter soul; For June was nearly spent away Before my heart was whole. _The Trifler_ Death's the lover that I'd be taking; Wild and fickle and fierce is he. Small's his care if my heart be breaking-- Gay young Death would have none of me. Hear them clack of my haste to greet him! No one other my mouth had kissed. I had dressed me in silk to meet him-- False young Death would not hold the tryst. Slow's the blood that was quick and stormy, Smooth and cold is the bridal bed; I must wait till he whistles for me-- Proud young Death would not turn his head. I must wait till my breast is wilted, I must wait till my back is bowed, I must rock in the corner, jilted,-- Death went galloping down the road. Gone's my heart with a trifling rover. Fine he was in the game he played-- Kissed, and promised, and threw me over, And rode away with a prettier maid. _A Very Short Song_ Once when I was young and true, Someone left me sad-- Broke my brittle heart in two; And that is very bad. Love is for unlucky folk, Love is but a curse. Once there was a heart I broke; And that, I think, is worse. _A Well-Worn Story_ In April, in April, My one love came along, And I ran the slope of my high hill To follow a thread of song. His eyes were hard as porphyry With looking on cruel lands; His voice went slipping over me Like terrible silver hands. Together we trod the secret lane And walked the muttering town. I wore my heart like a wet, red stain On the breast of a velvet gown. In April, in April, My love went whistling by, And I stumbled here to my high hill Along the way of a lie. Now what should I do in this place But sit and count the chimes, And splash cold water on my face And spoil a page with rhymes? _Convalescent_