Why did you smile to his face, red Rose,
As he whistled across your way?
And all the world went mad for you,
All the world it knelt to woo.

A rose will bloom in a day.

I gather your petals, Rose-red Rose,
The petals he threw away.
And all the world derided you;
Ah! the world, how well it knew
A rose will fade in a day!

Dora Sigerson Shorter [18

AFFAIRE D'AMOUR

ONE pale November day
Flying Summer paused,
They say:

And growing bolder,

O'er rosy shoulder

Threw her lover such a glance

That Autumn's heart began to dance. (O happy lover!)

A leafless peach-tree bold

Thought for him she smiled,

I'm told;

And, stirred by love,

His sleeping sap did move,

Decking each naked branch with green
To show her that her look was seen!
(Alas, poor lover!)

But Summer, laughing fled,

Nor knew he loved her!

'Tis said

The peach-tree sighed,

And soon he gladly died:

And Autumn, weary of the chase,

Came on at Winter's sober pace

(O careless lover!)

Margaret Deland (1857

The Way of It

1049

A CASUAL SONG

SHE sang of lovers met to play

"Under the may bloom, under the may,"
But when I sought her face so fair,

I found the set face of Despair.

She sang of woodland leaves in spring,
And joy of young love dallying;

But her young eyes were all one moan,

And Death weighed on her heart like stone.

I could not ask, I know not now,
The story of that mournful brow;
It haunts me as it haunted then,
A flash from fire of hellbound men.

Roden Noel (1834-1894)

THE WAY OF IT

THE wind is awake, pretty leaves, pretty leaves,
Heed not what he says; he deceives, he deceives:
Over and over

To the lowly clover

He has lisped the same love (and forgotten it, too)
He will soon be lisping and pledging to you.

The boy is abroad, pretty maid, pretty maid,
Beware his soft words; I'm afraid, I'm afraid:
He has said them before

Times many a score,

Ay, he died for a dozen ere his beard pricked through, And the very same death he will die for you.

The way of the boy is the way of the wind,
As light as the leaves is dainty maid-kind;
One to deceive,

And one to believe-

That is the way of it, year to year;

But I know you will learn it too late, my dear.

John Vance Cheney [1848

"WHEN LOVELY WOMAN STOOPS TO FOLLY"

From "The Vicar of Wakefield"

WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly

And finds too late that men betray,--
What charm can soothe her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from every eye,

To give repentance to her lover
And wring his bosom, is-to die.

Oliver Goldsmith [1728-1774]

FOLK-SONG

BACK she came through the trembling dusk;
And her mother spoke and said:

"What is it makes you late to-day,
And why do you smile and sing as gay
As though you just were wed?”

"Oh mother, my hen that never had chicks Has hatched out six!"

Back she came through the flaming dusk;
And her mother spoke and said:
"What gives your eyes that dancing light,
What makes your lips so strangely bright,
And why are your checks so red?"
"Oh mother, the berries I ate in the lane
Have left a stain."

Back she came through the faltering dusk;

And her mother spoke and said:

"You are weeping; your footstep is heavy with care

What makes you totter and cling to the stair,

And why do you hang your head?"

"Oh mother-oh mother-you never can knowI loved him so!"

Louis Untermeyer [1885

"She Was Young and Blithe and Fair" 1051

A VERY OLD SONG

"DAUGHTER, thou art come to die:

Sound be thy sleeping, lass." "Well: without lament or cry,

Mother, let me pass."

"What things on mould were best of all?
(Soft be thy sleeping, lass.)"
"The apples reddening till they fall
In the sun beside the convent wall.
Let me pass."

"Whom on earth hast thou loved best?
(Sound be thy sleeping, lass.)"

"Him that shared with me thy breast;
Thee and a knight last year our guest.
He hath an heron to his crest.
Let me pass."

"What leavest thou of fame or hoard?
(Soft be thy sleeping, lass.)"

"My far-blown shame for thy reward;
To my brother, gold to get him a sword.
Let me pass."

"But what wilt leave thy lover, Grim?
(Sound be thy sleeping, lass.)"
"The hair he kissed to strangle him.

Mother, let me pass."

William Laird [1888

"SHE WAS YOUNG AND BLITHE AND FAIR"

SHE was young and blithe and fair,
Firm of purpose, sweet and strong;
Perfect was her crown of hair,
Perfect most of all her song.

Yesterday beneath an oak,
She was chanting in the wood:

Wandering harmonies awoke;
Sleeping echoes understood.

To-day without a song, without a word,
She seems to drag one piteous fallen wing
Along the ground, and, like a wounded bird,
Move silent, having lost the heart to sing.

She was young and blithe and fair,
Firm of purpose, sweet and strong;
Perfect was her crown of hair,

Perfect most of all her song.

Harold Monro [1879

THE LASS THAT DIED OF LOVE

LIFE is not dear or gay

Till lovers kiss it,

Love stole my life away

Ere I might miss it.
In sober March I vowed
I'd have no lover,
Love laid me in my shroud

Ere June was over.

I felt his body take

My body to it,

And knew my heart would break

Ere I should rue it;

June roses are not sad

When dew-drops steep them,

My moments were so glad

I could not keep them.

Proud was I love had made
Desire to fill me,

I shut my eyes and prayed
That he might kill me.
I saw new wonders wreathe

The stars above him.
And oh, I could not breathe
For kissing of him.