Three corpses lay out on the shining sands
  In the morning gleam as the tide went down,
And the women are weeping and wringing their hands
  For those who will never come home to the town;
For men must work, and women must weep—­
And the sooner it’s over, the sooner to sleep—­
    And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.

THE “OLD, OLD SONG”

When all the world is young, lad,
  And all the trees are green;
And every goose a swan, lad,
  And every lass a queen,—­
Then hey for boot and horse, lad,
  And round the world away;
Young blood must have its course, lad,
  And every dog his day.

When all the world is old, lad,
  And all the trees are brown;
And all the sport is stale, lad,
  And all the wheels run down,—­
Creep home, and take your place there,
  The spent and maimed among: 
God grant you find one face there
  You loved when all was young.

A FAREWELL

My fairest child, I have no song to give you;
  No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray;
Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you
        For every day.

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever;
  Do noble things, not dream them, all day long: 
And so make life, death, and that vast forever
        One grand, sweet song.

THE LOST DOLL

I once had a sweet little doll, dears,
  The prettiest doll in the world;
Her cheeks were so red and white, dears,
  And her hair was so charmingly curled. 
But I lost my poor little doll, dears,
  As I played in the heath one day;
And I cried for her more than a week, dears,
  But I never could find where she lay.

I found my poor little doll, dears,
  As I played in the heath one day;
Folks say she is terribly changed, dears,
  For her paint is all washed away,
And her arms trodden off by the cows, dears,
  And her hair not the least bit curled;
Yet for old sakes’ sake, she is still, dears,
  The prettiest doll in the world.

* * * * *

POEMS BY HELEN HUNT JACKSON

“Down to sleep”

November woods are bare and still;
November days are clear and bright;
Each noon burns up the morning’s chill;
The morning’s snow is gone by night. 
Each day my steps grow slow, grow light,
As through the woods I reverent creep,
Watching all things lie “down to sleep.”

I never knew before what beds,
Fragrant to smell, and soft to touch,
The forest sifts and shapes and spreads;
I never knew before how much
Of human sound there is in such
Low tones as through the forest sweep,
When all wild things lie “down to sleep.”