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How tired we feel, my heart and I;
We seem of no use in the world;
Our fancies hang gray and uncurled
About men's eyes indifferently;

Our voice, which thrilled you so, will let
You sleep; our tears are only wet;
What do we here, my heart and I?

So tired, so tired, my heart and I;

It was not thus in that old time When Ralph sat with me 'neath the lime To watch the sun set from the sky: "Dear Love, you 're looking tired," he said; I, smiling at him, shook my head; 'Tis now we 're tired, my heart and I.

So tired, so tired, my heart and I!

Though now none takes me on his arm To fold me close and kiss me warm,

Till each quick breath ends in a sigh
Of happy languor. Now, alone
We lean upon his graveyard stone,
Uncheered, unkissed, my heart and I.
Tired out we are, my heart and I.

Suppose the world brought diadems
To tempt us, crusted with loose gems
Of powers and pleasures? Let it try.
We scarcely care to look at even
A pretty child, or God's blue heaven,
We feel so tired, my heart and I.
Yet, who complains? My heart and I?
In this abundant earth no doubt
Is little room for things worn out;
Disdain them, break them, throw them by;
And if before the days grew rough,
We once were loved, then- well enough
I think we 've fared, my heart and I.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

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T

THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.

SHE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,

Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear.

Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead;

They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread.

The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay,

And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood

In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?

Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of flowers

Are lying in their lowly beds with the fair and good of ours.

The rain is falling where they lie; but the cold November rain

Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,

And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;

But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,

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ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE.

Y mother! when I learned that thou wast dead,

Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss⚫ Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in blissAh, that maternal smile! it answers - Yes. I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! But was it such? It was. Where thou art gone

Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting words shall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.
What ardently I wished, I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived.
By expectation every day beguiled.
Dupe of to-morrow, even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent,

I learned at last submission to my lot,
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.
WILLIAM COWPER.

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.

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NE more unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly,

Lift her with care:

Fashioned so slenderly,
Young and so fair!

Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements;
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly.
Loving, not loathing.

Touch her not scornfully;
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly;
Not of the stains of her,

All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny
Rash and undutiful;

Past all dishonor,

Death has left on her

Only the beautiful.

Still for all slips of hers,
One of Eve's family-

Wipe those poor lips of hers

Oozing so clammily.
Loop up her tresses
Escaped from the comb,
Her fair auburn tresses:
Whilst wonderment guesses
Where was her home?

Who was her father?
Who was her mother?

Had she a sister?

Had she a brother?

Or was there a dearer one

Still, and a nearer one

Yet, than all other?

Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!

O, it was pitiful!
Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.

Sisterly, brotherly,

Fatherly, motherly
Feelings had changed:
Love, by harsh evidence,
Thrown from its eminence;
Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.

Where the lamps quiver

So far in the river,

With many a light

From window and casement, From garret to basement, She stood, with amazement, Houseless by night.

The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shiver;
But not the dark arch,

Or the black flowing river:
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery
Swift to be hurled,-
Anywhere, anywhere
Out of the world!

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