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I BELIEVE, if I should die,

And you should kiss my eyelids where I lie,
Cold, dead, and dumb to all the world contains,
The folded orbs would open at thy breath,
And, from its exile in the Isles of Death,
Life would come gladly back along my veins.
I believe, if I were dead,

And you upon my lifeless heart should tread-
Not knowing what the poor clod chanced to be-
It would find sudden pulse beneath the touch
Of him it ever loved in life so much,

And throb again-warm, tender, true to thee.


I believe, if in my grave,

Hidden in woody deeps all by the waves,

Your eyes should drop some warm tears of regret,
From every salty seed of your dear grief
Some fair, sweet blossom would leap into leaf,
To prove that death could not make my love




I believe, if I should fade

Into the realms where light is made,

And you should long once more my face to see,
I would come forth upon the hills of night
And gather stars, like fagots, till thy sight,
Fed by the beacon blaze, fell full on me.
I believe my love for thee

(Strong as my life) so nobly placed to be,
It could as soon expect to see the sun

Fall, like a dead king, from its heights sublime,
His glory stricken from the throne of time,
As thee unworthy the worship thou hast won.


I believe who has not loved

Hath half the treasure of his life unproved,
Like one who, with the grape within his grasp,
Drops it, with all its crimson juice impressed,
And all its luscious sweetness left unguessed,
Out of his careless and unheeding clasp.
I believe love pure and true

Is to the soul a sweet, immortal dew
That gems life's petals in the hour of dusk.
The waiting angels see and recognize
The rich crown-jewel, love of Paradise,
When life falls from us like a withered husk.



"I love you, I love you," the fond wave sang, As she crept to the garment's hem

Of the lordly hill, where her wistful tears
Were gemming it gem on gem.

"I love you, I love you! Oh, lift me up To your place in the sunlit air;

Or bend, if you will, your face to mine,
Till I kiss the gold of your hair.”

"Nay, nay, fair wave, yet ever be sure
Your song is as sweet as can be;

It toucheth me e'en as it toucheth the wind,
Whose harp maketh music for me."


"The wind, the wind," said the murmuring wave,
"The wind is not constant a day;

It blows where it listeth, while I, O hill,
Am faithful for aye and aye."

"The wind and the sun and the rain," quoth he, "Are friends whom my verdure renews;

But you, little wave, with your softest caress,
Whatever to help me, do you?"

"Ah, nothing” she sighed, “but to love and to


Your feet with my kisses and tears;


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