[Illustration:  (I SAW THE OLD YEAR END)]

The eyes that once had shed their bright
  Sweet looks like sunshine, now were dull,
And ever lidded from the light
  That made them beautiful.

II

The chimes of bells were in the air,
  And sounds of mirth in hall and street,
With pealing laughter everywhere
  And throb of dancing feet: 

The mirth and the convivial din
  Of revelers in wanton glee,
With tunes of harp and violin
  In tangled harmony.

But with a sense of nameless dread,
  I turned me, from the merry face
Of this newcomer, to my dead;
  And, kneeling there a space,

I sobbed aloud, all tearfully:—­
  By this dear face so fixed and cold,
O Lord, let not this New Year be
  As happy as the old!

THEIR SWEET SORROW

They meet to say farewell:  Their way
Of saying this is hard to say.—­
  He holds her hand an instant, wholly
  Distressed—­and she unclasps it slowly.

He bends his gaze evasively
Over the printed page that she
  Recurs to, with a new-moon shoulder
  Glimpsed from the lace-mists that enfold her.

The clock, beneath its crystal cup,
Discreetly clicks—­“Quick!  Act!  Speak up!”
  A tension circles both her slender
  Wrists—­and her raised eyes flash in splendor.

Even as he feels his dazzled own.—­
Then, blindingly, round either thrown,
  They feel a stress of arms that ever
  Strain tremblingly—­and “Never!  Never!”

Is whispered brokenly, with half
A sob, like a belated laugh,—­
  While cloyingly their blurred kiss closes,
  Sweet as the dew’s lip to the rose’s.

[Illustration:  (THEIR SWEET SORROW)]

[Illustration:  (JUDITH)]

JUDITH

O her eyes are amber-fine—­
Dark and deep as wells of wine,
While her smile is like the noon
Splendor of a day of June. 
If she sorrow—­lo! her face
It is like a flowery space
In bright meadows, overlaid
With light clouds and lulled with shade. 
If she laugh—­it is the trill
Of the wayward whippoorwill
Over upland pastures, heard
Echoed by the mocking-bird
In dim thickets dense with bloom
And blurred cloyings of perfume. 
If she sigh—­a zephyr swells
Over odorous asphodels
And wan lilies in lush plots
Of moon-drown’d forget-me-nots. 
Then, the soft touch of her hand—­
Takes all breath to understand
What to liken it thereto!—­
Never roseleaf rinsed with dew
Might slip soother-suave than slips
Her slow palm, the while her lips
Swoon through mine, with kiss on kiss
Sweet as heated honey is.

[Illustration:  (O, HER EYES ARE AMBER-FINE)]