 | Poetical works of Ella Wheeler Wilcox |  |
229
THE CHANGE
She leaned out into the soft June weather,
With her long loose tresses the night breeze played;
Her eyes were as blue as the bells on the heather:
Oh, what is so fair as a fair young maid!
With her long loose tresses the night breeze played;
Her eyes were as blue as the bells on the heather:
Oh, what is so fair as a fair young maid!
She folded her hands, like the leaves of a lily,
“My life,” she said, “is a night in June,
Fair and quiet, and calm and stilly;
Bring me a change, O changeful moon!
“My life,” she said, “is a night in June,
Fair and quiet, and calm and stilly;
Bring me a change, O changeful moon!
“Who would drift on a lake for ever?
Young hearts weary—it is not strange,
And sigh for the beautiful bounding river;
New moon, true moon, bring me a change!”
Young hearts weary—it is not strange,
And sigh for the beautiful bounding river;
New moon, true moon, bring me a change!”
The rose that rivalled her maiden blushes
Dropped from her breast, at a stranger's feet;
Only a glance; but the hot blood rushes
To mantle a fair face, shy and sweet.
Dropped from her breast, at a stranger's feet;
Only a glance; but the hot blood rushes
To mantle a fair face, shy and sweet.
To and fro, while the moon is waning,
They walk, and the stars shine on above;
And one is in earnest, and one is feigning—
Oh, what is so sweet as a sweet young love?
They walk, and the stars shine on above;
And one is in earnest, and one is feigning—
Oh, what is so sweet as a sweet young love?
230
A young life crushed, and a young heart broken,
A bleak wind blows through the lovely bower,
And all that remains of the love vows spoken—
Is the trampled leaf of a faded flower.
A bleak wind blows through the lovely bower,
And all that remains of the love vows spoken—
Is the trampled leaf of a faded flower.
The night is dark, for the moon is failing—
And what is so pale as a pale old moon!
Cold is the wind through the tree-tops wailing—
Woe that the change should come so soon.
And what is so pale as a pale old moon!
Cold is the wind through the tree-tops wailing—
Woe that the change should come so soon.
| Poetical works of Ella Wheeler Wilcox | |