That like a picture painted on the skies,
At the sweet closing of the summer days,
You stand before my eyes.

I see you on the old verandah there,
While slow the shadows of the twilight fall,
I see the very carving on the chair
You tilt against the wall.

The West grows dim. The faithful evening star
Comes out and sheds its tender patient beam.
I almost catch the scent of your cigar,
As you sit there and dream.

But dream of what? I know your outward life--
Your ways, your habits; know they have not changed.
But has one thought of me survived the strife
Since we two were estranged?

I know not of the workings of your heart;
And yet I sometimes make myself believe
That I perchance do hold some little part
Of reveries at eve.

I think you could not wholly put away
The memories of a past that held so much.
As birds fly homeward at the close of day,
A word, a kiss, a touch,

Must sometimes come and nestle in your breast
And murmur to you of the long ago.
Oh do they stir you with a vague unrest?
What would I give to know!

BEFORE AND AFTER

Before I lost my love, he said to me:
'Sweetheart, I like deep azure tints on you.'
But I, perverse as any girl will be
Who has too many lovers, wore not blue.

He said, 'I love to see my lady's hair
Coiled low like Clytie's--with no wanton curl.'
But I, like any silly, wilful girl,
Said, 'Donald likes it high,' and wore it there.

He said, 'I wish, love, when you sing to me,
You would sing sweet, sad things--they suit your voice.'
I tossed my head, and sung light strains of glee--
Saying, 'This song, or that, is Harold's choice.'

But now I wear no colour--none but blue.
Low in my neck I coil my silken hair.
He does not know it, but I strive to do
Whatever in his eyes would make me fair.

I sing no songs but those he loved the best.
(Ah! well, no wonder: for the mournful strain
Is but the echo of the voice of pain,
That sings so mournfully within my breast.)

I would not wear a ribbon or a curl
For Donald, if he died from my neglect--
Oh me! how many a vain and wilful girl
Learns true love's worth, but--when her life is wrecked.

AN EMPTY CRIB

Beside a crib that holds a baby's stocking,
A tattered picture book, a broken toy,
A sleeping mother dreams that she is rocking
Her fair-haired cherub boy.

Upon the cradle's side her light touch keeping,
She gently rocks it, crooning