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At Sunset.
101
And whenever my heart grows bitter
And cries for the sweet, old days,
I come to you, and at sunset
We wander by dim, green ways.
And cries for the sweet, old days,
I come to you, and at sunset
We wander by dim, green ways.
Friendship may be only a myth, dear,
Love may be nought but a snare,
But you're a reality, Emily—
My little, brown, thoroughbred mare.
Love may be nought but a snare,
But you're a reality, Emily—
My little, brown, thoroughbred mare.
Might is Right.
There ran a whisper through the nodding grass—
"Along this upland she will surely pass,"
There rose a murmur in the sheoak glade—
"Beneath us she may haply pause for shade,"
And sweet epacris blushed a lovelier red,
"Perhaps she'll stoop and gather me," it said,
But one warm zephyr from the ardent south
Said boldly—
"I shall kiss her on the mouth."
But I, alas! no happy grass am I
To feel her footstep as she passes by,
"Along this upland she will surely pass,"
There rose a murmur in the sheoak glade—
"Beneath us she may haply pause for shade,"
And sweet epacris blushed a lovelier red,
"Perhaps she'll stoop and gather me," it said,
But one warm zephyr from the ardent south
Said boldly—
"I shall kiss her on the mouth."
But I, alas! no happy grass am I
To feel her footstep as she passes by,
