La Doleur De La Jeunessb.
By Margaret Steele Anderson
Ah, love, why love you tears?
What beauty in the rue?
Do you not know the years
Shall bring their griefs to you,
To dew your nightly pillow ere you sleep?
Perchance, hut let me weep!
No sorrow do you mourn,
No cloud in heaven for you.
No graves have you, forlorn.
With salt tears to bestrew.
Nor any field of tares that you must reap.
Ah no! Yet I would weep!
One day, shall not your ships
Come sailing o'er the blue.
With fruit and spice for lips.
And robes of many a hue.
And gems and gold for your white hands to keep?
Yet, on the shore, I weep!
Then I my harp will bring,
And sing your tears and ruth;
More sweet than songs of spring
Sweet bitterness of youth!
I will forget, one hour, that grief is deep,
And, singing, I will weep!