Sleep! Yet thy days are mine; Love's seal is over thee: Far though my ways from thine, Dim though thy memory. Love stays a summer night, Till lights of morning come; Then takes her winged flight Back to her starry home. [_When the song is finished, the curtain falls upon Pierrot sleeping._] THE END. DECORATIONS BEYOND Love's aftermath! I think the time is now That we must gather in, alone, apart The saddest crop of all the crops that grow, Love's aftermath. Ah, sweet,--sweet yesterday, the tears that start Can not put back the dial; this is, I trow, Our harvesting! Thy kisses chill my heart, Our lips are cold; averted eyes avow The twilight of poor love: we can but part, Dumbly and sadly, reaping as we sow, Love's aftermath. DE AMORE Shall one be sorrowful because of love, Which hath no earthly crown, Which lives and dies, unknown? Because no words of his shall ever move Her maiden heart to own Him lord and destined master of her own: Is Love so weak a thing as this, Who can not lie awake, Solely for his own sake, For lack of the dear hands to hold, the lips to kiss, A mere heart-ache? Nay, though love's victories be great and sweet, Nor vain and foolish toys, His crowned, earthly joys, Is there no comfort then in love's defeat? Because he shall defer, For some short span of years all part in her, Submitting to forego The certain peace which happier lovers know; Because he shall be utterly disowned, Nor length of service bring Her least awakening: Foiled, frustrate and alone, misunderstood, discrowned, Is Love less King? Grows not the world to him a fairer place, How far soever his days Pass from his lady's ways, From mere encounter with her golden face? Though all his sighing be vain, Shall he be heavy-hearted and complain? Is she not still a star, Deeply to be desired, worshipped afar, A beacon-light to aid From bitter-sweet delights, Love's masquerade? Though he lose many things, Though much he miss: The heart upon his heart, the hand that clings, The memorable first kiss; Love that is love at all, Needs not an earthly coronal; Love is himself his own exceeding great reward, A mighty lord! Lord over life and all the ways of breath, Mighty and strong to save From the devouring grave; Yea, whose dominion doth out-tyrant death, Thou who art life and death in one, The night, the sun; Who art, when all things seem: Foiled, frustrate and forlorn, rejected of to-day Go with me all my way, And let me not blaspheme. THE DEAD CHILD Sleep on, dear, now The last sleep and the best, And on thy brow, And on thy quiet breast Violets I throw. Thy scanty years Were mine a little while; Life had no fears To trouble thy brief smile With toil or tears.