 | [Poems by Osgood in] The floral offering, a token of friendship |  |
HELENIA ........ Tears.
They say I'm just like thee, child;
I grieve to hear them so,
For thou art glad and free, child,
While I am worn with woe.
I grieve to hear them so,
For thou art glad and free, child,
While I am worn with woe.
They say I'm just like thee, love—
Alas! they cannot know,
Who mark my smiles of glee, love,
The source from whence they flow.
Alas! they cannot know,
Who mark my smiles of glee, love,
The source from whence they flow.
A pride I would not alter,
Forbids me to reveal,
Howe'er my soul may falter
The wretchedness I feel.
Forbids me to reveal,
Howe'er my soul may falter
The wretchedness I feel.
And so with idle laughter
I while away the hours,
And weep in secret after
O'er memory's buried flowers.
I while away the hours,
And weep in secret after
O'er memory's buried flowers.
They say I'm all too wild, love,
They chide my reckless joy;
They call me but a child, love,
That plays with every toy.
They chide my reckless joy;
They call me but a child, love,
That plays with every toy.
“A child!” they little know, love,
The woman-woes I've proved;
“Too wild!” 'tis but to show, love,
A soul by grief unmoved.
The woman-woes I've proved;
“Too wild!” 'tis but to show, love,
A soul by grief unmoved.
And so with seeming laughter
I while away the hours,
And weep a moment after
O'er memory's buried flowers!
I while away the hours,
And weep a moment after
O'er memory's buried flowers!
Yet I was once like thee, sweet;
A singing bird in spring,
My spirit fluttered free, sweet,
On light and sportive wing;
A singing bird in spring,
My spirit fluttered free, sweet,
On light and sportive wing;
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But Love his arrow sent, love,
And broke the buoyant wing,
And changed to wild lament, love,
The song I used to sing.
And broke the buoyant wing,
And changed to wild lament, love,
The song I used to sing.
And now with mocking laughter,
I wile away the hours,
And weep in anguish after,
O'er memory's buried flowers!
I wile away the hours,
And weep in anguish after,
O'er memory's buried flowers!
F. S. O
| [Poems by Osgood in] The floral offering, a token of friendship | |