When fond expressions on dull ears fall,
       When the hands clasp calmly without one thrill,
       When we cannot muster by force of will
     The old emotions that came at call;

     When the dream has vanished we fain would keep,
       When the heart, like a watch, runs out of gear,
       And all the savor goes out of the year,
     Oh, then is the time—­if we can—­to weep!

     But no tears soften this dull, pale woe;
       We must sit and face it with dry, sad eyes. 
       If we seek to hold it, the swifter joy flies—­
     We can only be passive, and let it go.

     ISAURA.

     Dost thou not tire, Isaura, of this play? 
       “What play?” Why, this old play of winning hearts! 
     Nay, now, lift not thine eyes in that feigned way: 
       ’Tis all in vain—­I know thee and thine arts.

     Let us be frank, Isaura.  I have made
       A study of thee; and while I admire
     The practised skill with which thy plans are laid,
       I can but wonder if thou dost not tire.

     Why, I tire even of Hamlet and Macbeth! 
       When overlong the season runs, I find
     Those master-scenes of passion, blood, and death,
       After a time do pall upon my mind.

     Dost thou not tire of lifting up thine eyes
       To read the story thou hast read so oft—­
     Of ardent glances and deep quivering sighs,
       Of haughty faces suddenly grown soft?

     Is it not stale, oh, very stale, to thee,
       The scene that follows?  Hearts are much the same;
     The loves of men but vary in degree—­
       They find no new expressions for the flame.

     Thou must know all they utter ere they speak,
       As I know Hamlet’s part, whoever plays. 
     Oh, does it not seem sometimes poor and weak? 
       I think thou must grow weary of their ways.

     I pity thee, Isaura!  I would be
       The humblest maiden with her dream untold
     Rather than live a Queen of Hearts, like thee,
       And find life’s rarest treasures stale and old.

     I pity thee; for now, let come what may,
       Fame, glory, riches, yet life will lack all. 
     Wherewith can salt be salted?  And what way
       Can life be seasoned after love doth pall?

     [Illustration:  TIRED OF THE OFT-READ STORY]

     THE COQUETTE.

     Alone she sat with her accusing heart,
       That, like a restless comrade frightened sleep,
     And every thought that found her, left a dart
       That hurt her so, she could not even weep.

     Her heart that once had been a cup well filled
       With love’s red wine, save for some drops of gall
     She knew was empty; though it had not spilled
       Its sweets for one, but wasted them on all.