Why are they written--all these lovers' rhymes? I see but vacant windows, curtained o'er With webs whose architects forevermore Race up and down their slender threads to bind The buzzing fly's wings whirless, and to wind The living victim in his winding sheet.-- I shudder, and with whispering lips repeat, Why are they written--all these lovers' rhymes? Why are they written--all these lovers' rhymes? What will you have for answer?--Shall I say That he who sings the merriest roundelay Hath neither joy nor hope?--and he who sings The lightest, sweetest, tenderest of things But utters moan on moan of keenest pain, So aches his heart to ask and ask in vain, Why are they written--all these lovers' rhymes? THE TOUCH OF LOVING HANDS IMITATED Light falls the rain-drop on the fallen leaf, And light o'er harvest-plain and garnered sheaf-- But lightlier falls the touch of loving hands. Light falls the dusk of mild midsummer night, And light the first star's faltering lance of light On glimmering lawns,--but lightlier loving hands. And light the feathery flake of early snows, Or wisp of thistle-down that no wind blows, And light the dew,--but lightlier loving hands. Light-falling dusk, or dew, or summer rain, Or down of snow or thistle--all are vain,-- Far lightlier falls the touch of loving hands. A TEST 'Twas a test I designed, in a quiet conceit Of myself, and the thoroughly fixed and complete Satisfaction I felt in the utter control Of the guileless young heart of the girl of my soul. So--we parted. I said it were better we should-- That she could forget me--I knew that she could; For I never was worthy so tender a heart, And so for her sake it were better to part. She averted her gaze, and she sighed and looked sad As I held out my hand--for the ring that she had-- With the bitterer speech that I hoped she might be Resigned to look up and be happy with me. 'Twas a test, as I said--but God pity your grief, At a moment like this when a smile of relief Shall leap to the lips of the woman you prize, And no mist of distress in her glorious eyes. A SONG FOR CHRISTMAS Chant me a rhyme of Christmas-- Sing me a jovial song,-- And though it is filled with laughter, Let it be pure and strong. Let it be clear and ringing, And though it mirthful be, Let a low, sweet voice of pathos Run through the melody. Sing of the hearts brimmed over With the story of the day-- Of the echo of childish voices That will not die away.-- Of the blare of the tasselled bugle, And the timeless clatter and beat Of the drum that throbs to muster Squadrons of scampering feet.--