 | WATERING-PLACE POETRY. Saratoga in 1901 |  |
WATERING-PLACE POETRY.
One of the most gifted of poets handed
me this watering-place parody to-day.
From dawn till nightfall, at my window sitting,
I wait while drift the heavy hours away;
And like the swallows, all my thoughts go fitting,
To darling Kate, with whom they fain would stay.
Up from the spring there comes the thoughtless laughter
Of those who linger by the fountain's side;
I hear them not—my gaze still follows after
My dear lost friend—God grant no ill betide.
Out from the dance I come where loves are mating,
And music sweetly swells the eventide,
Listless I wander, while my love is waiting—
Where'er she be there would my heart abide.
All the day long I listen to her coming,
All the day long I dream of one dear face:
I hear her whispers in the trees' low humming,
I feel her kisses in the wind's embrace.
I wait while drift the heavy hours away;
And like the swallows, all my thoughts go fitting,
To darling Kate, with whom they fain would stay.
Up from the spring there comes the thoughtless laughter
Of those who linger by the fountain's side;
I hear them not—my gaze still follows after
My dear lost friend—God grant no ill betide.
Out from the dance I come where loves are mating,
And music sweetly swells the eventide,
Listless I wander, while my love is waiting—
Where'er she be there would my heart abide.
All the day long I listen to her coming,
All the day long I dream of one dear face:
I hear her whispers in the trees' low humming,
I feel her kisses in the wind's embrace.
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Lonely I dream while the warm sunshine lingers,
While happy voices fill the mellow air;
Alone sit dreaming, while my trembling fingers
Pass o'er my eyes half closed by doubt and care.
Ah! heavy heart, so passionate its yearning,
It cannot be that all my peace is o'er;
That all the love that in my heart is burning
On her is lost—that she can love no more!
But once to feel, unchecked, her fond caressing,
One wild, sweet hour, close to her heart to press!
There my thought stops—what else of bliss or blessing
The great world holds—I do not care to guess.
Still at my window, dreaming while their laughter
Sounds o'er the spring and up the hill above,
I lean, and wish that I might follow after
Till I could clasp my arms around my love!
While happy voices fill the mellow air;
Alone sit dreaming, while my trembling fingers
Pass o'er my eyes half closed by doubt and care.
Ah! heavy heart, so passionate its yearning,
It cannot be that all my peace is o'er;
That all the love that in my heart is burning
On her is lost—that she can love no more!
But once to feel, unchecked, her fond caressing,
One wild, sweet hour, close to her heart to press!
There my thought stops—what else of bliss or blessing
The great world holds—I do not care to guess.
Still at my window, dreaming while their laughter
Sounds o'er the spring and up the hill above,
I lean, and wish that I might follow after
Till I could clasp my arms around my love!
| WATERING-PLACE POETRY. Saratoga in 1901 | |