But you said that you loved me, darling, And swore by the heavens above That the Lord and all of His angels Would sanction and bless our love. And I? I was weak, not wicked. My love was as pure as true, And sin itself seemed a virtue If only shared by you. We have been happy together, Though under the cloud of sin, But I know that the day approaches When my chastening must begin. You have been faithful and tender, But you will not always be, And I think I had better leave you While your thoughts are kind of me. I know my beauty is fading-- Sin furrows the fairest brow-- And I know that your heart will weary Of the face you smile on now. You will take a bride to your bosom After you turn from me; You will sit with your wife in the moonlight, And hold her babe on your knee. Oh, God! I never could bear it; It would madden my brain, I know; And so while you love me dearly I think I had better go. It is sweeter to feel, my darling-- To know as I fall asleep-- That some one will mourn me and miss me, That some one is left to weep, Than to die as I should in the future, To drop in the street some day, Unknown, unwept and forgotten After you cast me away. Perhaps the blood of the Saviour Can wash my garments clean; Perchance I may drink of the waters That flow through pastures green. Perchance we may meet in heaven, And walk in the streets above, With nothing to grieve us or part us Since our sinning was all through love. God says, “Love one another,” And down to the depths of hell Will he send the soul of a woman Because she loved--and fell? * * * * * And so in the moonlight he found her, Or found her beautiful clay, Lifeless and pallid as marble, For the spirit had flown away. The farewell words she had written She held to her cold, white breast, And the buried blade of a dagger Told how she had gone to rest. BABYLAND. Have you heard of the Valley of Babyland, The realm where the dear little darlings stay, Till the kind storks go, as all men know, And oh, so tenderly bring them away? The paths are winding and past all finding By all save the storks, who understand The gates and the highways and the intricate by-ways That lead to Babyland. All over the Valley of Babyland Sweet flowers bloom in the soft green moss, And under the ferns fair, and under the plants there Lie little heads like spools of floss. With a soothing number the river of slumber Flows o’er a bedway of silver sand; And angels are keeping watch o’er the sleeping Babes of Babyland.