Their Sweet Sorrow

They meet to say farewell: Their way
Of saying this is hard to say.
He holds her hand an Instant, wholly
Distressed - and she unclasps it slowly,

He lends his gaze evasively
Over the printed page that she
Recurs to, with a new-moon shoulder
Glimpsed from the lace-mists that infold her.

The clock, beneath its crystal cup,
Discreetly clicks"Quick! Act! Speak up!"
A tension circles both her slender
Wrists - and her raised eyes flash in splendor,

Even as he feels his dazzled own.
Then blindingly, round either thrown,
They feel a stress of arms that ever
Strain tremblingly - and "Never! Never!"

Is whispered brokenly, with half
A sob, like a belated laugh,
While cloyingly their blurred kiss closes,
Sweet as the dew's lip to the rose's.

James Whitcomb Riley

James Whitcomb Riley was an American writer, poet, and best-selling author. He was known as the "Hoosier Poet" and the "Children's Poet" for his dialect works and children's poetry respectively. Over his career, Riley authored approximately 1,000 poems, including "Little Orphant Annie" and "The Raggedy Man". His influence extended into the 20th century, and his works continued to be celebrated for their nostalgic and rural themes.

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English

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Their Sweet Sorrow.

They meet to say farewell: Their way
Of saying this is hard to say. -
    He holds her hand an instant, wholly
    Distressed - and she unclasps it slowly.

He bends his gaze evasively
Over the printed page that she
    Recurs to, with a new-moon shoulder
    Glimpsed from the lace-mists that enfold her.

The clock, beneath its crystal cup,
Discreetly clicks - "Quick!    Act!    Speak up!"
    A tension circles both her slender
    Wrists - and her raised eyes flash in splendor,

Even as he feels his dazzled own. -
Then, blindingly, round either thrown,
    They feel a stress of arms that ever
    Strain tremblingly - and "Never!    Never!"

Is whispered brokenly, with half
A sob, like a belated laugh, -
    While cloyingly their ...

James Whitcomb Riley

In The Evening

I

In the evening of our days,
When the first far stars above
Glimmer dimmer, through the haze,
Than the dewy eyes of love,
Shall we mournfully revert
To the vanished morns and Mays
Of our youth, with hearts that hurt, -
In the evening of our days?


II

Shall the hand that holds your own
Till the twain are thrilled as now,
Be withheld, or colder grown?
Shall my kiss upon your brow
Falter from its high estate?
And, in all forgetful ways,
Shall we sit apart and wait -
In the evening of our days?


III

Nay, my wife - my life! - the gloom
Shall enfold us velvetwise,
And my smile shall be the groom
Of the gladness of your eyes:
Gently, gently as the dew
Mingles with the darkening maze,

James Whitcomb Riley

Song Of Parting

Say farewell, and let me go;
Shatter every vow!
All the future can bestow
Will be welcome now!
    And if this fair hand I touch
    I have worshipped overmuch,
    It was my mistake - and so,
    Say farewell, and let me go.

Say farewell, and let me go:
Murmur no regret,
Stay your tear-drops ere they flow -
Do not waste them yet!
    They might pour as pours the rain,
    And not wash away the pain:
    I have tried them and I know. -
    Say farewell, and let me go.

Say farewell, and let me go:
Think me not untrue -
True as truth is, even so
I am true to you!
    If the ghost of love may stay
    Where my fond heart dies to-day,
    I am with you alway - so,
    Say farewell, and let me go.

James Whitcomb Riley

Dearth

I hold your trembling hand to-night - and yet
I may not know what wealth of bliss is mine,
My heart is such a curious design
Of trust and jealousy! Your eyes are wet -
So must I think they jewel some regret,
And lo, the loving arms that round me twine
Cling only as the tendrils of a vine
Whose fruit has long been gathered: I forget,
While crimson clusters of your kisses press
Their wine out on my lips, my royal fair
Of rapture, since blind fancy needs must guess
They once poured out their sweetness otherwhere,
With fuller flavoring of happiness
Than e'en your broken sobs may now declare.

James Whitcomb Riley

A Leave-Taking.

She will not smile;
    She will not stir;
I marvel while
    I look on her.
    The lips are chilly
        And will not speak;
    The ghost of a lily
        In either cheek.

Her hair - ah me!
    Her hair - her hair!
How helplessly
    My hands go there!
    But my caresses
        Meet not hers,
    O golden tresses
        That thread my tears!

I kiss the eyes
    On either lid,
Where her love lies
    Forever hid.
    I cease my weeping
        And smile and say:
    I will be sleeping
        Thus, some day!

James Whitcomb Riley

Sweet-Knot And Galamus

AN OLD SWEETHEART.



As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone,
And muses on the faces of the friends that he has known,
So I turn the leaves of fancy till, in shadowy design,
I find the smiling features of an old sweetheart of mine.

The lamplight seems to glimmer with a flicker of surprise,
As I turn it low to rest me of the dazzle in my eyes,
And light my pipe in silence, save a sigh that seems to yoke
Its fate with my tobacco and to vanish with the smoke.

'Tis a fragrant retrospection - for the loving thoughts that start
Into being are like perfumes from the blossom of the heart;
And to dream the old dreams over is a luxury divine -
When my truant fancy wanders with that old sweeheart of mine.

Though I hear, beneath my study, lik...

James Whitcomb Riley