Songs

I marked her ruined hues,
Her custom-straitened views,
And asked, ‘Can there indwell
My Amabel?’

I looked upon her gown,
Once rose, now earthen brown;
The change was like the knell
Of Amabel.

Her step’s mechanic ways
Had lost the life of May’s;
Her laugh, once sweet in swell,
Spoilt Amabel.

I mused: ‘Who sings the strain
I sang ere warmth did wane?
Who thinks its numbers spell
His Amabel?’—

Knowing that, though Love cease,
Love’s race shows no decrease;
All find in dorp or dell
An Amabel.

—I felt that I could creep
To some housetop, and weep
That Time the tyrant fell
Ruled Amabel!

I said (the while I sighed
That love like ours had died),
‘Fond things I’ll no more tell
To Amabel,

‘But leave her to her fate,
And fling across the gate,
“Till the Last Trump, farewell,
O Amabel!”’