I dream of the purple gloryOf the roseate mountain-heightAnd the sweet-to-remember storyOf a distant and clear delight.

199

But the gray and the cold are hauntedBy a beauty akin to pain, --By a sense of a something wanted,That never will come again.

169

The hymn of the low and the humble, the weary, the broken in heart,Who strove and who failed, acting bravely a silent and desperate part.

167

Hate me an hour, and then turn roundAnd love me truly, just one minute.

149

When, full of warm and eager love,I clasp you in my fond embrace,You gently push me back and say,"Take care, my dear, you'll spoil my lace."

147

The rain keeps constantly raining,And the sky is cold and gray,And the wind in the trees keeps complainingThat summer has passed away; --.

140

Give me the old enthusiasms back,Give me the ardent longings that I lack, --The glorious dreams that fooled me in my youth,The sweet mirage that lured me on its track. . . .

112

Do I hate you? No! Not hate?Hate's a word far too intense,Too alive, to speak a stateOf supreme indifference.

107

Those black eyes I once so praisedNow are hard and sharp and cold;Where's the love that through them blazed?Where's the tenderness of old?

96