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HIS SHARE AND MINE.
Does that crouching Venus care
That he must forget the charm
Of her broken beautiful arm?
That he must forget the charm
Of her broken beautiful arm?
Yet these were the dead man's friends,—
Wooed in his passionate youth,
And won when his head was grey;
Look at them close, I pray.
Ah, these he has loved, in sooth,
Yet among them all, I fear,
Is nothing so sweet as—a tear!
Wooed in his passionate youth,
And won when his head was grey;
Look at them close, I pray.
Ah, these he has loved, in sooth,
Yet among them all, I fear,
Is nothing so sweet as—a tear!
HIS SHARE AND MINE.
He went from me so softly and so soon.
His sweet hands rest at morning and at noon;
His sweet hands rest at morning and at noon;
The only task God gave them was to hold
A few faint rosebuds—and be white and cold.
A few faint rosebuds—and be white and cold.
His share of flowers he took with him away;
No more will blossom here so fair as they.
No more will blossom here so fair as they.
His share of thorns he left—and, if they tear
My hands instead of his, I do not care.
My hands instead of his, I do not care.
