Only of thee and me the breakers chant, Only of us the stir in bush and tree; The rain and sunshine tell the eager plant Only of thee and me. Only of thee and me, till all shall fade; Only of us the whole world's thoughts can be -- For we are Love, and God Himself is made Only of thee and me. When the Wind is low. [Cale Young Rice] When the wind is low, and the sea is soft, And the far heat-lightning plays On the rim of the west where dark clouds nest On a darker bank of haze; When I lean o'er the rail with you that I love And gaze to my heart's content; I know that the heavens are there above -- But you are my firmament. When the phosphor-stars are thrown from the bow And the watch climbs up the shroud; When the dim mast dips as the vessel slips Through the foam that seethes aloud; I know that the years of our life are few, And fain as a bird to flee, That time is as brief as a drop of dew -- But you are Eternity. Love Triumphant. [Frederic Lawrence Knowles] Helen's lips are drifting dust; Ilion is consumed with rust; All the galleons of Greece Drink the ocean's dreamless peace; Lost was Solomon's purple show Restless centuries ago; Stately empires wax and wane -- Babylon, Barbary, and Spain; -- Only one thing, undefaced, Lasts, though all the worlds lie waste And the heavens are overturned. Dear, how long ago we learned! There's a sight that blinds the sun, Sound that lives when sounds are done, Music that rebukes the birds, Language lovelier than words, Hue and scent that shame the rose, Wine no earthly vineyard knows, Silence stiller than the shore Swept by Charon's stealthy oar, Ocean more divinely free Than Pacific's boundless sea, -- Ye who love have learned it true. Dear, how long ago we knew! Be still. The Hanging Gardens were a dream. [Trumbull Stickney] Be still. The Hanging Gardens were a dream That over Persian roses flew to kiss The curled lashes of Semiramis. Troy never was, nor green Skamander stream. Provence and Troubadour are merest lies, The glorious hair of Venice was a beam Made within Titian's eye. The sunsets seem, The world is very old and nothing is. Be still. Thou foolish thing, thou canst not wake, Nor thy tears wedge thy soldered lids apart, But patter in the darkness of thy heart. Thy brain is plagued. Thou art a frighted owl Blind with the light of life thou'ldst not forsake, And Error loves and nourishes thy soul. The Tears of Harlequin. [Theodosia Garrison] To you he gave his laughter and his jest, His words that of all words were merriest, His glad, mad moments when the lights flared high And his wild song outshrilled the plaudits' din. For you that memory, but happier I -- I, who have known the tears of Harlequin.