Page:The Yellow Book - 07.djvu/263



By Frances Nicholson

, tender night! Lay my head on thy lap and dull me With deep-drugged breath Of sweet—lipped violet Or heavy woodbine wreath, That I may soon forget How hope no more may lull me To dreams of light.

Oh, pitying earth! Bid thy far—wandering streamlets tell me Some place of rest 'Neath sedgy banks that yet With yellow buds are drest, That I may soon forget Such sorrow erst befell me In true love's dearth. In