Warm summer dwells upon thy cheeks
⁠And in thy dancing eyes;
But in thy little heart, fair child,
⁠Cold, frosty winter lies.

Yet these, I think, as years grow on,
⁠Will play a different part;
Then, winter on thy cheeks shall be,
⁠And summer in thy heart.

Hast thou forgotten, quite forgotten, dear,
That I possessed thy heart for many a year?
Thy little heart, so small, so false, so sweet,
Sweetest and falsest heart that ever beat.

The love and pain hast thou forgotten, dear,
That weighed upon my heart for many a year;
I know not which was greater of the twain,
Only that they were great, both love and pain.

I longed to linger, resting
⁠Beside you, free from care;
But you ran off, protesting
⁠You had no time to spare.

I vowed my soul should never
⁠Know other queen but you;
You only laughed, however,
⁠And dropped a curtsy, too.

All day you sorely tried me;
⁠And, not content with this,
You cruelly denied me
⁠Even a farewell kiss.

But if you will not soften,
⁠I shall survive it still;
I've been through this so often,
⁠Sweet—and it does not kill.

A black-walled barn, with roof of sombre red;
⁠Within, a dusty, sunlit granary-floor;
⁠On either side a widely opened door
Let in broad sunlight on the thresher's head,
And showed the cattle 'neath a neighb'ring shed.
⁠Beyond the sunshine, piled in golden store,
⁠Lay the clean grain; while ever more and more
The empty straw, and the bright heap it made,
⁠O'ertopped the well-stacked sheaves of heavy wheat
⁠That in the sunlight close beside our feet
Lay ready to the thresher's busy hand,
⁠Who in the midst with wilful-falling flail
Beat a slow music they could understand
⁠To lazy barn-fowls seated on the rail.

Under an archway he stands,—every day he is there,
The little old pancake-man, with his tins and his cooking-ware;
Tossing his batter aloft, as he brays out many a yarn
Concerning the making of crêpes, which he designates à la MacMahon.

"First, there are eggs to be sifted,—the country's best silver and gold;
Next for some flummery mixture, or else the matter won't hold;
Stir it about with sugar, then pop it into the pan,
And out comes a crêpe for the marshal—or—any popular man."

The people around him laugh,—"There's wisdom in that!" they cry;
For had not old Antoine seen the violets bloom and die?
The lilies, too,—yet there, still there, with his "voix d'âne,"
He praises now, and tosses his crêpes,—à la MacMahon!

God keep you, dearest, all this lonely night.
The winds are still,
The moon drops down behind the western hill.
God keep you safely, dearest, till the light!

God keep you still, when slumber melts away,
For care and strife
Take up new arms to fret our waking life.
God keep you through the battle of the day!

God keep you! Nay, beloved soul, how vain,
How poor is prayer!
I can but say again, and yet again,
God keep you every time and everywhere!

The primrose-head is bowed with tears,
⁠The wood is rippling through with rain,
Though now the heaven once more appears,
⁠And beams the bounteous sun again.
From every blade and blossom-cup
The earth sends thankful incense up.

O happy hearts of flower and field,
⁠That, soon as grief be overpast,
Your fragrant thankfulness can yield
⁠For troubled skies and rainful blast!
I would that I as soon could see
The blessings of adversity!