It is to hear the robin trill
At morning, or the whippoorwill
At dusk, when stars are blossoming
To hear her sing—­to hear her sing!

To hear her sing—­it is to hear
The laugh of childhood ringing clear
In woody path or grassy lane
Our feet may never fare again.

Faint, far away as Memory dwells,
It is to hear the village bells
At twilight, as the truant hears
Them, hastening home, with smiles and tears.

Such joy it is to hear her sing,
We fall in love with everything—­
The simple things of every day
Grow lovelier than words can say.

The idle brooks that purl across
The gleaming pebbles and the moss,
We love no less than classic streams—­
The Rhines and Arnos of our dreams.

To hear her sing—­with folded eyes,
It is, beneath Venetian skies,
To hear the gondoliers’ refrain,
Or troubadours of sunny Spain.—­

To hear the bulbul’s voice that shook
The throat that trilled for Lalla Rookh: 
What wonder we in homage bring
Our hearts to her—­to hear her sing!

THE RIVAL

I so loved once, when Death came by I hid
  Away my face,
And all my sweetheart’s tresses she undid
  To make my hiding-place.

The dread shade passed me thus unheeding; and
  I turned me then
To calm my love—­kiss down her shielding hand
  And comfort her again.

And lo! she answered not:  And she did sit
  All fixedly,
With her fair face and the sweet smile of it,
  In love with Death, not me.

[Illustration:  (THE RIVAL)]

[Illustration:  (A VARIATION—­TITLE)]

A VARIATION

I am tired of this! 
  Nothing else but loving! 
Nothing else but kiss and kiss,
  Coo, and turtle-doving! 
    Can’t you change the order some? 
    Hate me just a little—­come!

Lay aside your “dears,”
  “Darlings,” “kings,” and “princes!”—­
Call me knave, and dry your tears—­
  Nothing in me winces,—­
    Call me something low and base—­
    Something that will suit the case!

Wish I had your eyes
  And their drooping lashes! 
I would dry their teary lies
  Up with lightning-flashes—­
    Make your sobbing lips unsheathe
    All the glitter of your teeth!

Can’t you lift one word—­
  With some pang of laughter—­
Louder than the drowsy bird
  Crooning ’neath the rafter? 
    Just one bitter word, to shriek
    Madly at me as I speak!

How I hate the fair
  Beauty of your forehead! 
How I hate your fragrant hair! 
  How I hate the torrid
    Touches of your splendid lips,
    And the kiss that drips and drips!

Ah, you pale at last! 
  And your face is lifted
Like a white sail to the blast,
  And your hands are shifted
    Into fists:  and, towering thus,
    You are simply glorious!