 | Ballads and Lyrics by Katharine Tynan |  |
114
A WOMAN.
As one might see an enchanted land
Mistily over sea and strand
Purple and gold on the sky-line,
And since he might not go would pine,
So is she, with her old joys dead,
Her rose of life all witherèd.
Mistily over sea and strand
Purple and gold on the sky-line,
And since he might not go would pine,
So is she, with her old joys dead,
Her rose of life all witherèd.
Nay, there is ripe gold on the wheat,
And the wind bids you welcome, sweet.
Are lilies in the garden bed,
And a lark singing overhead,
Mists of blue Summer, and aloft,
Ripe apples in the orchard croft.
And the wind bids you welcome, sweet.
Are lilies in the garden bed,
And a lark singing overhead,
Mists of blue Summer, and aloft,
Ripe apples in the orchard croft.
She will not hear. She sees across
The world, with a sick sense of loss,
A house that none hath builded well,
A heaven wherein she shall not dwell,
A threshold that she may not pass.
Hearth-fires that none hath lit, alas!
The world, with a sick sense of loss,
A house that none hath builded well,
A heaven wherein she shall not dwell,
A threshold that she may not pass.
Hearth-fires that none hath lit, alas!
115
Voices of children calling her
Mother, to make her heart-strings stir,
Are calling in that lonely house;
Sweet as young birds the dawn will rouse,
The yellow heads against her knee
Flutter and dance untiringly.
Mother, to make her heart-strings stir,
Are calling in that lonely house;
Sweet as young birds the dawn will rouse,
The yellow heads against her knee
Flutter and dance untiringly.
And since one man will never come
And take her hand and lead her home
Opening the long-locked door for her,
The glory withers off the year,
Though she is patient: but to-day
Life goes for her a dusty way.
And take her hand and lead her home
Opening the long-locked door for her,
The glory withers off the year,
Though she is patient: but to-day
Life goes for her a dusty way.
And for that music most forlorn,
Voices of children never born,
And the love words that are not hers,
Even the sweet sky choristers
Pleasure her not. Oh, let her be,
She and her dreams are company.
Voices of children never born,
And the love words that are not hers,
Even the sweet sky choristers
Pleasure her not. Oh, let her be,
She and her dreams are company.
| Ballads and Lyrics by Katharine Tynan | |