II.

  Low, low down in the violets I press
  My lips and whisper to her.  Does she hear,
  And yet hold silence, though I call her dear,
  Just as of old, save for the tearfulness
  Of the clenched eyes, and the soul’s vast distress? 
  Has she forgotten thus the old caress
  That made our breath a quickened atmosphere
  That failed nigh unto swooning with the sheer
  Delight?  Mine arms clutch now this earthen heap
  Sodden with tears that flow on ceaselessly
  As autumn rains the long, long, long nights weep
  In memory of days that used to be,—­
  Has she forgotten these?  And, in her sleep,
  Has she forgotten me—­forgotten me?

III.

  To-night, against my pillow, with shut eyes,
  I mean to weld our faces—­through the dense
  Incalculable darkness make pretense
  That she has risen from her reveries
  To mate her dreams with mine in marriages
  Of mellow palms, smooth faces, and tense ease
  Of every longing nerve of indolence,—­
  Lift from the grave her quiet lips, and stun
  My senses with her kisses—­drawl the glee
  Of her glad mouth, full blithe and tenderly,
  Across mine own, forgetful if is done
  The old love’s awful dawn-time when said we,
  “To-day is ours!"....  Ah, Heaven! can it be
  She has forgotten me—­forgotten me!

A’ OLD PLAYED-OUT SONG.

  It’s the curiousest thing in creation,
    Whenever I hear that old song,
  “Do They Miss Me at Home?” I’m so bothered,
    My life seems as short as it’s long!—­
  Far ever’thing ’pears like adzackly
    It ’peared, in the years past and gone,—­
  When I started out sparkin’, at twenty,
    And had my first neckercher on!

  Though I’m wrinkelder, older and grayer
    Right now than my parents was then,
  You strike up that song, “Do They Miss Me?”
    And I’m jest a youngster again!—­
  I’m a-standin’ back there in the furries
    A-wishin’ far evening to come,
  And a-whisperin’ over and over
    Them words, “Do They Miss Me at Home?”

  You see, Marthy Ellen she sung it
    The first time I heerd it; and so,
  As she was my very first sweetheart,
    It reminds of her, don’t you know,—­
  How her face ust to look, in the twilight,
    As I tuck her to spellin’; and she
  Kep’ a-hummin’ that song ’tel I ast her,
    Pine-blank, ef she ever missed me!

  I can shet my eyes now, as you sing it,
    And hear her low answerin’ words,
  And then the glad chirp of the crickets
    As clear as the twitter of birds;
  And the dust in the road is like velvet,
    And the ragweed, and fennel, and grass
  Is as sweet as the scent of the lilies
    Of Eden of old, as we pass.