Song.

          If I had known

That when the morrow dawned the roses would be dead
I would have filled my hands with blossoms white and red. 

                    If I had known!

          If I had known

That I should be to-day deaf to all happy birds
I would have lain for hours to listen to your words. 

                    If I had known!

          If I had known

That with the morning light you would be gone for aye
I would have been more kind;—­sweet Love had won his way

                    If I had known.

Anticipation.

Let us peer forward through the dusk of years
And force the silent future to reveal
Her store of garnered joys; we may not kneel
For ever, and entreat our bliss with tears. 
Somewhere on this drear earth the sunshine lies,
Somewhere the air breathes Heaven-blown harmonies.

    Some day when you and I have fully learned
      Our waiting-lesson, wondering, hand in hand
      We shall gaze out upon an unknown land,
    Our thoughts and our desires forever turned
      From our old griefs, as swallows, home warding,
      Sweep ever southward with unwearied wing.

    We shall fare forth, comrades for evermore. 
      Though the ill-omened bird Time loves to bear
      Has brushed this cheek and left an impress there
    I shall be fierce and dauntless as of yore,
      Free as a bird o’er the wide world to rove,
      And strong and fearless, O my Love, to love.

    What have we now?  The haunting, vague unrest
      Of incompleted measures; and we dream
      Vainly, of the Musician and His theme,
    How the great Master in a day most blest
      Shall strike some mighty chords in harmony,
      And make an end, and set the music free!

    We snatch from Fate our moments of delight,
      Few as, in April hours, the wooing calls
      Of orioles, or when the twilight falls
    First o’er the forest ere the approach of night
      The eyes of evening;—­and Love’s song is sung
      But once, Dear Heart, but once, and we are young.

    Over the seas together, you and I,
      ’Neath blue Italian skies, or on the hills
      Of storied Greece,—­where the warm sunlight fills
    Spain’s mellow vineyards,—­wandering reverently
      O’er the green plains of Palestine,—­our days
      A golden holiday in Old World ways.

    Yet would we linger not by southern shores;
      The bracing breath of Scandinavian snows
      Would draw us from our dreams.  The North wind blows
    Upon thy cheek, my Norseman, and the roars
      Of the wild Baltic sound within my ears
      When to my dreams thy stalwart form appears.