40
POEMS.
A PASSING FANCY.
I came from my box at the play, last night,
As a face in the crowd flashed past:
Time was when those eyes were my eyes' best light,
And my heart at that name beat fast.
And yet, when we met in the hurrying stream,
I sighed not as much of a sigh
As if it had been but the part of a dream
I had dreamed in the days gone by.
As a face in the crowd flashed past:
Time was when those eyes were my eyes' best light,
And my heart at that name beat fast.
And yet, when we met in the hurrying stream,
I sighed not as much of a sigh
As if it had been but the part of a dream
I had dreamed in the days gone by.
Though we die with our hand in the hand we love,
We may wake to its touch estranged.
If the love that we loved so indifferent prove,
May not love we love now be changed?
And our souls in some heaven may pass and sigh,
Half-ashamed of the life they knew:
"Ah! how fond beat the heart of what once was I,
For the sake of what once was you."
We may wake to its touch estranged.
If the love that we loved so indifferent prove,
May not love we love now be changed?
And our souls in some heaven may pass and sigh,
Half-ashamed of the life they knew:
"Ah! how fond beat the heart of what once was I,
For the sake of what once was you."
C. D.
