Page:Pieces People Ask For.djvu/24



And I waited and watched her apart,
 * And a mist seemed to compass my sight;

For last year we were nearer than friends,
 * And to me she was nothing to-night.

And the jasmine she wore at her throat
 * Was heavy with fragrance, and cast

The sorrowful present away,
 * And carried me back to the past.

Yes, her face is as proud and as sweet,
 * And the flowers are the same as of old.

Is her voice just as gentle and low?
 * Is her heart just as cruel and cold?

Does she dream of one summer ago,
 * As she stands on the rose-tinted stair?

Does she think of her Newport romance,
 * While she buttons her long mosquetaire?

And some one is singing a song,
 * And high o'er the music it rings,

And she listens and leans from the stair,
 * For these are the words that it sings:—

"Oh, love for a month or a week,
 * Oh, love for a year or a day;

But, oh for the love that will live—
 * That will linger forever and aye!"

There's a stillness—the music has stopped,
 * And she turns with an indolent grace:

Am I waking, or still do I dream,
 * Or is there a tear on her face?

Then I step from the shadow apart,
 * Till I stand by her side on the stair:

One step to the flowers and light
 * From the darkness and gloom of despair.

And I take both her hands in my own,
 * And I look in her eyes once again,—

And I shiver and tremble and shake
 * When I think what a fool I have been.