And there, drenched with the teary dews, I'd woo her with such wondrous art As well might stanch the songs that ooze Out of the mockbird's breaking heart; So light, so tender, and so sweet Should be the words I would repeat, Her casement, on my gradual sight, Would blossom as a lily might. THE OLD HOME BY THE MILL. This is "The old Home by the Mill"--far we still call it so, Although the old mill, roof and sill, is all gone long ago. The old home, though, and old folks, and the old spring, and a few Old cat-tails, weeds and hartychokes, is left to welcome you! Here, Marg'et, fetch the man a tin to drink out of' Our spring Keeps kindo-sorto cavin' in, but don't "taste" anything! She's kindo agein', Marg'et is--"the old process," like me, All ham-stringed up with rheumatiz, and on in seventy-three. Jes' me and Marg'et lives alone here--like in long ago; The childern all put off and gone, and married, don't you know? One's millin' way out West somewhere; two other miller-boys In Minnyopolis they air; and one's in Illinoise. The oldest gyrl--the first that went--married and died right here; The next lives in Winn's Settlement--for purt' nigh thirty year! And youngest one--was allus far the old home here--but no!-- Her man turns in and he packs her 'way off to Idyho! I don't miss them like _Marg'et_ does--'cause I got _her_, you see; And when she pines for them--that's 'cause _she's_ only jes' got _me_! I laugh, and joke her 'bout it all.--But talkin' sense, I'll say, When she was tuk so bad last Fall, I laughed the t'other way! I haint so favorble impressed 'bout dyin'; but ef I Found I was only second-best when _us two_ come to die, I'd 'dopt the "new process" in full, ef _Marg'et_ died, you see,-- I'd jes' crawl in my grave and pull the green grass over me! A LEAVE-TAKING. She will not smile; She will not stir; I marvel while I look on her. The lips are chilly And will not speak; The ghost of a lily In either cheek. Her hair--ah me! Her hair--her hair! How helplessly My hands go there! But my caresses Meet not hers, O golden tresses That thread my tears! I kiss the eyes On either lid, Where her love lies Forever hid. I cease my weeping And smile and say: I will be sleeping Thus, some day! WAIT FOR THE MORNING. Wait for the morning:--It will come, indeed, As surely as the night hath given need. The yearning eyes, at last, will strain their sight No more unanswered by the morning light; No longer will they vainly strive, through tears, To pierce the darkness of thy doubts and fears, But, bathed in balmy dews and rays of dawn, Will smile with rapture o'er the darkness drawn.