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Bear up a little longer yet!"

His mouth was black with blood and sweat--
Heaven! how he longed his lips to wet
On the Llano Estacado.

And still, within his breast, he held
The precious flask so lately filled.
Oh, for a drink! But well he knew
If empty it should meet her view,
Her scorn-but still his longing grew
On the Llano Estacado.

His horse went down. He wandered on,
Giddy, blind, beaten, and alone.
While upon cushioned couch you lie,
Oh, think how hard it is to die,
Beneath the cruel, cloudless sky
On the Llano Estacado.

At last he staggered, stumbled, fell,
His day was done, he knew full well,
And raising to his lips the flask,

The end, the object of his task,

Drank to her-more she could not ask.

Ah, the Llano Estacado!

That night in the Presidio,

Beneath the torchlight's wavy glow,
She danced-and never thought of him,
The victim of a woman's whim,

Lying, with face upturned and grim,

On the Llano Estacado.

Joaquin Miller [1841-1913]

ENCHAINMENT

I WENT to her who loveth me no more,

And prayed her bear with me, if so she might; For I had found day after day too sore,

And tears that would not cease night after night.

Auld Robin Gray

And so I prayed her, weeping, that she bore
To let me be with her a little; yea,

To soothe myself a little with her sight,
Who loved me once, ah! many a night and day.

Then she who loveth me no more, maybe
She pitied somewhat: and I took a chain
To bind myself to her, and her to me;

Yea, so that I might call her mine again.
Lo! she forbade me not; but I and she
Fettered her fair limbs, and her neck more fair,

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Chained the fair wasted white of love's domain,
And put gold fetters on her golden hair.

Oh! the vain joy it is to see her lie

Beside me once again; beyond release,
Her hair, her hand, her body, till she die,
All mine, for me to do with what I please!
For, after all, I find no chain whereby
To chain her heart to love me as before,

Nor fetter for her lips, to make them cease
From saying still she loveth me no more.

Arthur O'Shaughnessy [1844-1881]

AULD ROBIN GRAY

WHEN the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame,

And a' the warld to rest are gane,

The wacs o' my heart fa' in showers frac my c'e,

While my gudeman lies sound by me.

Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride;

But saving a croun he had naething else beside:

To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea;

And the croun and the pund were baith for me.

He hadna been awa' a week but only twa,

When my father brak his arm, and the kye was stown awa'; My mother she fell sick,-and my Jamie at the sea

And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin' me.

My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin; I toiled day and night, but their bread I couldna win; Auld Rob maintained them baith, and wi' tears in his e'e Said, "Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me!"

My heart it said nay; I looked for Jamie back;
But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack;

His ship it was a wrack-Why didna Jamie dee?
Or why do I live to cry, Wae's me!

My father urged me sair: my mother didna speak;

But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break: They gi'ed him my hand, though my heart was in the sea; Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.

I hadna been a wife a week but only four,
When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the door,
I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it he,
Till he said, "I'm come hame to marry thee."

O, sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say;
We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves away:
I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee;
And why was I born to say, Wae's me!

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin;
I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin;
But I'll do my best a gude wife aye to be,
For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me.

Anne Barnard [1750-1825]

LOST LIGHT

My heart is chilled and my pulse is slow,
But often and often will memory go,
Like a blind child lost in a waste of snow,
Back to the days when I loved you so―
The beautiful long ago.

I sit here dreaming them through and through,
The blissful moments I shared with you--

A Sigh

The sweet, sweet days when our love was new,
When I was trustful and you were true-
Beautiful days, but few!

Blest or wretched, fettered or free,
Why should I care how your life may be,
Or whether you wander by land or sea?
I only know you are dead to me,

Ever and hopelessly.

Oh, how often at day's decline

I pushed from my window the curtaining vine,
To see from your lattice the lamp-light shine—
Type of a message that, half divine,

Flashed from your heart to mine.

Once more the starlight is silvering all;
The roses sleep by the garden wall;

The night bird warbles his madrigal,
And I hear again through the sweet air fall
The evening bugle-call.

But summers will vanish and years will wane,
And bring no light to your window pane;
Nor gracious sunshine nor patient rain
Can bring dead love back to life again:
I call up the past in vain.

My heart is heavy, my heart is old,
And that proves dross which I counted gold;

I watch no longer your curtain's fold;

The window is dark and the night is cold,

And the story forever told.

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Elizabeth Akers [1832-1911]

A SIGH

It was nothing but a rose I gave her,

Nothing but a rose

Any wind might rob of half its savor,

Any wind that blows.

But, if it's parting more endears,
God bring him back, I pray;
my heart will break in the darkness
Before the break of day.

Or

All day I tell my rosary,

My rosary of hours,

Until an hour shall bring to me
The hope of all the flowers..

I tell my rosary of hours,

And

For O, my love's away;

-a dream may bring him back to me
About the break of day.

Alfred Noyes [1880

WHEN SHE COMES HOME

WHEN she comes home again! A thousand ways
I fashion, to myself, the tenderness

Of my glad welcome: I shall tremble-yes;
And touch her, as when first in the old days

I touched her girlish hand, nor dared upraise
Mine eyes, such was my faint heart's sweet distress
Then silence: and the perfume of her dress:

The room will sway a little, and a haze
Cloy eyesight-soul-sight, even-for a space;
And tears-yes; and the ache here in the throat,
To know that I so ill deserve the place

Her arms make for me; and the sobbing note

I stay with kisses, ere the tearful face

Again is hidden in the old embrace.

James Whitcomb Riley [1852-1916]

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