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The lion's cub

with other verse
Stoddard, Richard Henry (1825-1903)

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LIBER AMORIS.
 1. 
I.
 2. 
II.
 3. 
III.
 4. 
IV.
 5. 
V.
 6. 
VI.
 7. 
VII.
 8. 
VIII.
 9. 
IX.
 10. 
X.
 11. 
XI.
 12. 
XII.
 13. 
XIII.
  
THROUGH DARKNESS.
  
THE GRAVES.
  
THE DOOR.
  
RICH AND POOR.
  
SUCCOR.
  
THE UNCREATED.
  
THE CHAPTER OF THE CROWN.
  
THE PILGRIMAGE.
  
THE WORDS OF SADI.
  
THE BOWL.
  
THE MOTHERLESS CHILD.
  
SPEECH AND SILENCE.
  
THE BLACK CAMEL.
  
ROSE AND VINE.
  
HE KNOWS.
  
THE END OF SONG.
  
THE BOOKS OF THE SIBYLS.
  
THE ROSARY.
  
THE NAME.
  
THE END.
  
THE MORALS OF MARCUS AURELIUS.
  
THE POTTER.
  
THE DEATH OF MOSES.
  
THE BRAHMAN'S LESSON.
  
MASTER ECKART'S SERMON.
  
THE CUP.
  
THE WALK AT NIGHT.
  
THE ANT.
  
LOVERS' HEARTS.
  
CLEON AND ÆGLE.
  
THE CAPTIVES OF CHARON.
  
A LAMENT.
  
THE PEARL.
  
NO JEWELS.
  
CARISSIMA.
  
AT DRACHENFELS.
  
AT MERRY MOUNT.
  
BIRDS OF A FEATHER.
  
GOOD-NIGHT.
  
WHENCE AND WHITHER?
  
THE ARCHETYPAL MAN.
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FOUR GAZELES OF HAFIZ.
 1. 
I.
 2. 
II.
 3. 
III.
 4. 
IV.
  
THE LADY OF THE EAST.
  
ROMANCES FROM GUSTAVO BECQUER.
  
OUT-OF-DOORS.
  
UNCERTAIN SOUNDS.
  
MUSIC.
  
A SAILOR SONG.
  
IMPLORA PACEM.
  
THE CAPTAIN'S SONG.
  
TO JULIA.
  
IN THE MEADOWS.
  
IN THE SNOW.
  
HOW AND WHY.
  
MORS ET VITA.
  
THOUGHT.
  
THE SINGER.
  
A FANTASY.
  
VOX CLAMANTIS.
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CHILDREN'S SONGS.
 1. 
I.
 2. 
II.
 3. 
III.
 4. 
IV.
 5. 
V.
 6. 
VI.
  
FATHER AND CHILD.
  
OUR FATHERS.
  
THOUGHTS FOR THANKSGIVING.
  
DECORATION DAY.
  
HAIR OF WASHINGTON.
  
TO MARY BRADLEY.
  
TO WILLIAM JAMES LINTON.
  
AT A DINNER OF ARTISTS.
  
AT WASHINGTON.
  
MORITURUM SALUTAMUS.
  
ON NEARING THE SECOND CATARACT.
  
THE CROSSING OF THE WAYS.
  
AT CONCORD.
  
AT ROSLYN.
  
THE JUDGMENT OF SOLOMON.
  
THE LEGEND OF FREY BERNARDO.
  
THE BRAHMAN'S SON.
  
THE LION'S CUB.

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IX.

This man loves me. If you have ever said
These woman's words, it was to yourself alone;
But you have never said them, never known
The difference between my heart and head.
The songs that I have written you have read
As shallow fancies, which your way have flown;
You have not felt there the deep undertone
Where what still lives in me laments its dead.
But you will feel it when the busy hand
That pens this fervent page hath lost its skill;
And when the heart that urges it is still
And cold as yours, then you will understand
My pure and strong devotion, and will be
Constrained to say, too late: This man loved me.
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