Love and Youth 



I would that I in such a strain 

 Might sing my song to you again, 

 In newborn language clothe my art, 

 Some Esperanto of the heart, 

 Each note as fresh and all unworn 

 As if each tone were newly born. 



But clumsily I do my part 

 In words worn smooth beyond repair. 

 Their angles rounded everywhere 

 Through usage in the common mart. 

 The Lark seems nearer Heaven than I, 

 I cannot voice his ecstasy. 



And yet to you my song I bring; 

 I am not saying anything, — 

 My words are old and dull and gray, 

 They yield me nothing new to say; 

 But you who listen know, forsooth, 

 Know that I sing of Love and Youth, 

 Of Love that grants Eternal Youth! 



In a Week of Sundays 



In a week of Sundays, 

 In a year of Mays, 

 In a life o'erflowing 

 With fair holidays. 



Sit beside me, sweetheart; 

 Touch my hand once more. 

 And the days shall ever 

 Follow as before, — 



Every day a Sunday 

 Every month a June, 

 Every night and morning 

 Blessed afternoon! 



C 843 1 



