And the earth looked sordid and dull and brown,
And neutral-tinted and neutral-souled;
And all of life seemed a story told,
And the only spot that was bright to see
Was a patch of green that had bloomed for me
Where a garden lived in a spring long fled,
When Love stood smiling --
BUT LOVE WAS DEAD!



TO A CERTAIN ROOM

Your room is still the dainty little place,
That used to seem so much a part of you --
The draperies of faded rose and blue
Still hold a shadow of their former grace.
The windows still are hung with frosty lace,
And sometimes, when the moonlight glimmers
through,
I watch your mirror, half expecting to
See once again, reflected there, your face!

And yet, the little room seems much too neat,
It seems quite colorless, and very bare,
Because the filmy things you used to wear
Are laid away. Because the perfume sweet
That clung about you has been swept aside. . . .
Your room is there -- but, oh, its soul has died!