THE PARTING HOUR.

NOT yet, dear love, not yet: the sun is high; You said last night, “At sunset I will go.” Come to the garden, where, when blossoms die, No word is spoken; it is better so: Ah! bitter word, “Farewell.” Hark how the birds sing sunny songs of spring! Soon they will build, and work will silence them; So we grow less light-hearted as years bring Life’s grave responsibilities—and then The bitter word “Farewell.” The violets fret to fragrance ’neath your feet, Heaven’s gold sunlight dreams aslant your hair: No flower for me! your mouth is far more sweet. Oh, let my lips forget, while lingering there, Love’s bitter word “Farewell.” . . . . . . . . . . Sunset already! have we sat so long? The parting hour, and so much left unsaid! The garden has grown silent—void of song, Our sorrow shakes us with a sudden dread! Ah! bitter word “Farewell.” Olive Custance.