What a pity that all our wishes, And most of our prayers are vain; When we strive to recall a pleasure, Or crave to forget a pain. When the motives we deemed sufficient, Seem paltry, and mean, and weak; And the goal we'd have lost our soul for, Is that which we least would seek. And the pride of those vast ambitions, That rendered our hopes so great Has become but the coal-black cinders, Consumed in the fire of fate. What a pity! that blind with folly, We fancied all incomplete Every flower of the true contentment, That grew by our careless feet; Nor did pause in our path, to gather The fruits of a gracious Spring; Or to seek in our hearts the anthem We called on the world to sing. Ah, well! maybe God will remember, As payment of many debts, The penance of sad non-attainments, The sackcloth of vain regrets. And perhaps the Recording Angel May wipe out the faults of years With the hem of His shining garment, Grown damp with a sinner's tears. SONG Good-morning, sweet! a thousand little birds Their requiem to you sing; And tender flowers, with soft, perfuming words Their greetings bring. Good-morning, sweet! this faithful heart of mine Offers devotion vast as Heaven above, Beneath thy window, worships at thy shrine; Good-morning, love. Good-morning, sweet! the glory of the day Is naught compared to thee; Come forth and smile, with rapture bright and gay, That I may see. Good-morning, sweet! look up that I may live, Kiss me that I may taste of Heaven here, The joys of Paradise are thine to give, Good-morning, dear! TIREDNESS It is weary, weary this waiting, For that which can never be. It is dreary, dreary this mating, With tears and despondency. And methinks if beneath the grasses, There was somewhere, both still and deep, I would close my eyes to the morning, And thankfully fall asleep. ON THE LAGOON A gondola, the still lagoon; A Summer's night, an August moon; The splash of oars, a distant song, A little sigh, and—was it wrong? A kiss, both passionate and long. A MORNING ON COMO A symphony in pink and blue, A rhapsody of sun and dew, A virgin Venus born anew, Lay Como in the morning. And—"Would to Heaven some Muse divine Could guide this erring pen of mine," I cried, "to paint such grace as thine, Sweet Como in the morning!" IN ROME Daybreak. The heavy rumble in the street Of waggons, journeyed from the sun-baked plains; A laugh, an oath, as chance acquaintance meet; The bark of dogs, the crack of whip and reins; And then, with booming of combined refrains, The ringing, swinging, singing bells of Rome.