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Page 106 - From my bride betrothed, with her raven hair And her sumptuous scornful mien, To my early love, with her eyes downcast, And over her primrose face the shade, (In short, from the future back to the past,) There was but a step to be made. To my early love from my future bride One moment I looked.
Page 104 - And hers on the stage hard by. And both were silent, and both were sad. Like a queen she leaned on her full white arm, With that regal, indolent air she had; So confident of her charm!
Page 109 - The thing is precious to me: They will bury her soon in the churchyard clay; It lies on her heart, and lost must be If I do not take it away.
Page 105 - Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot). And her warm white neck, in its golden chain, And her full soft hair, just tied in a knot, And falling loose again. And the...
Page 103 - At Paris it was, at the opera there; And she looked like a queen in a book that night, With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair, And the brooch on her breast so bright.
Page 131 - THE CHESS-BOARD. MY little love, do you remember, Ere we were grown so sadly wise, Those evenings in the bleak December, Curtained warm from the snowy weather, When you and I played chess together, Checkmated by each other's eyes ? Ah ! still I see your soft white hand Hovering warm o'er Queen and Knight ; Brave Pawns in valiant battle stand ; The double Castles guard the wings ; The Bishop, bent on distant things, Moves...
Page 109 - Nobody with me, my watch to keep, But the friend of my bosom, the man I love: And grief had sent him fast to sleep In the chamber up above. Nobody else, in the country place All round, that knew of my loss beside, But the good young Priest with the Raphael-face, Who confessed her when she died.
Page 106 - With the jasmine in her breast. She is not dead, and she is not wed! But she loves me now, and she loved me then! And the very first word that her sweet lips said, My heart grew youthful again.
Page 106 - But I will marry my own first love, With her primrose face, for old things are best; And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above The brooch in my lady's breast. The world is filled with folly and sin, And love must cling where it can, I say; For beauty is easy enough to win — But one isn't loved every day.