The fold of your strong arm sent a thrill From heart to brain as we gently glided Like leaves on the wave of that waltz-quadrille; Parted, met, and again divided-- You drifting one way, and I another, Then suddenly turning and facing each other, Then off in the blithe chasse, Then airily back to our places swaying, While every beat of the music seemed saying That you were going away. I said to my heart, "Let us take our fill Of mirth and music and love and laughter; For it all must end with this waltz-quadrille, And life will be never the same life after. Oh, that the caller might go on calling, Oh, that the music might go on falling Like a shower of silver spray, While we whirled on to the vast Forever, Where no hearts break, and no ties sever, And no one goes away." A clamor, a crash, and the band was still; 'Twas the end of the dream, and the end of the measure: The last low notes of that waltz-quadrille Seemed like a dirge o'er the death of Pleasure. You said good-night, and the spell was over-- Too warm for a friend, and too cold for a lover-- There was nothing else to say; But the lights looked dim, and the dancers weary, And the music was sad, and the hall was dreary, After you went away. BEPPO. Why art thou sad, my Beppo? But last eve, Here at my feet, thy dear head on my breast, I heard thee say thy heart would no more grieve Or feel the olden ennui and unrest. What troubles thee? Am I not all thine own?-- I, so long sought, so sighed for and so dear? And do I not live but for thee alone? "_Thou hast seen Lippo, whom I loved last year_!" Well, what of that? Last year is naught to me-- 'Tis swallowed in the ocean of the past. Art thou not glad 'twas Lippo, and not thee, Whose brief bright day in that great gulf was cast. _Thy_ day is all before thee. Let no cloud, Here in the very morn of our delight, Drift up from distant foreign skies, to shroud Our sun of love whose radiance is so bright. "Thou art not first?" Nay, and he who would be Defeats his own heart's dearest purpose then. No truer truth was ever told to thee-- Who has loved most, he best can love again. If Lippo (and not he alone) has taught The arts that please thee, wherefore art thou sad? Since all my vast love-lore to thee is brought, Look up and smile, my Beppo, and be glad. TIRED. I am tired to-night, and something, The wind maybe, or the rain, Or the cry of a bird in the copse outside, Has brought back the past and its pain. And I feel, as I sit here thinking, That the hand of a dead old June Has reached out hold of my heart's loose strings, And is drawing them up in tune.