ON THE RIVER

  The sun is low,
  The waters flow,
  My boat is dancing to and fro. 
  The eve is still,
  Yet from the hill
  The killdeer echoes loud and shrill.

  The paddles plash,
  The wavelets dash,
  We see the summer lightning flash;
  While now and then,
  In marsh and fen
  Too muddy for the feet of men,

  Where neither bird
  Nor beast has stirred,
  The spotted bullfrog’s croak is heard. 
  The wind is high,
  The grasses sigh,
  The sluggish stream goes sobbing by.

  And far away
  The dying day
  Has cast its last effulgent ray;
  While on the land
  The shadows stand
  Proclaiming that the eve’s at hand.

POOR WITHERED ROSE

  A Song

  Poor withered rose, she gave it me,
  Half in revenge and half in glee;
  Its petals not so pink by half
  As are her lips when curled to laugh,
  As are her cheeks when dimples gay
  In merry mischief o’er them play.

  Chorus

      Forgive, forgive, it seems unkind
      To cast thy petals to the wind;
      But it is right, and lest I err
      So scatter I all thought of her.

  Poor withered rose, so like my heart,
  That wilts at sorrow’s cruel dart. 
  Who hath not felt the winter’s blight
  When every hope seemed warm and bright? 
  Who doth not know love unreturned,
  E’en when the heart most wildly burned?

  Poor withered rose, thou liest dead;
  Too soon thy beauty’s bloom hath fled. 
  ’Tis not without a tearful ruth
  I watch decay thy blushing youth;
  And though thy life goes out in dole,
  Thy perfume lingers in my soul.

WORN OUT

  You bid me hold my peace
    And dry my fruitless tears,
  Forgetting that I bear
    A pain beyond my years.

  You say that I should smile
    And drive the gloom away;
  I would, but sun and smiles
    Have left my life’s dark day.

  All time seems cold and void,
    And naught but tears remain;
  Life’s music beats for me
    A melancholy strain.

  I used at first to hope,
    But hope is past and, gone;
  And now without a ray
    My cheerless life drags on.

  Like to an ash-stained hearth
    When all its fires are spent;
  Like to an autumn wood
    By storm winds rudely shent,—­

  So sadly goes my heart,
    Unclothed of hope and peace;
  It asks not joy again,
    But only seeks release.

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

(From a Westerner’s Point of View.)