Why do you gaze with such accusing eyes Upon me, dear? Is it so very strange That hearts, like all things underneath God's skies Should sometimes feel the influence of change? The birds, the flowers, the foliage of the trees, The stars which seem so fixed and so sublime, Vast continents and the eternal seas-- All these do change with ever-changing time. The face our mirror shows us year on year Is not the same; our dearest aim or need, Our lightest thought or feeling, hope or fear, All, all the law of alteration heed. How can we ask the human heart to stay Content with fancies of Youth's earliest hours? The year outgrows the violets of May, Although, maybe, there are no fairer flowers. And life may hold no sweeter love than this, Which lies so cold, so voiceless, and so dumb. And shall I miss it, dear? Why, yes, we miss The violets always--till the roses come! DESOLATION. I think that the bitterest sorrow or pain Of love unrequited, or cold death's woe, Is sweet compared to that hour when we know That some grand passion is on the wane; When we see that the glory and glow and grace Which lent a splendor to night and day Are surely fading, and showing the gray And dull groundwork of the commonplace; When fond expressions on dull ears fall, When the hands clasp calmly without one thrill, When we cannot muster by force of will The old emotions that came at call; When the dream has vanished we fain would keep, When the heart, like a watch, runs out of gear, And all the savor goes out of the year, Oh, then is the time--if we can--to weep! But no tears soften this dull, pale woe; We must sit and face it with dry, sad eyes. If we seek to hold it, the swifter joy flies-- We can only be passive, and let it go. ISAURA. Dost thou not tire, Isaura, of this play? "What play?" Why, this old play of winning hearts! Nay, now, lift not thine eyes in that feigned way: 'Tis all in vain--I know thee and thine arts. Let us be frank, Isaura. I have made A study of thee; and while I admire The practised skill with which thy plans are laid, I can but wonder if thou dost not tire. Why, I tire even of Hamlet and Macbeth! When overlong the season runs, I find Those master-scenes of passion, blood, and death, After a time do pall upon my mind. Dost thou not tire of lifting up thine eyes To read the story thou hast read so oft-- Of ardent glances and deep quivering sighs, Of haughty faces suddenly grown soft? Is it not stale, oh, very stale, to thee, The scene that follows? Hearts are much the same; The loves of men but vary in degree-- They find no new expressions for the flame.