La Mort D’Amour

When was it that love died? We were so fond, So very fond a little while ago. With leaping pulses, and blood all aglow, We dreamed about a sweeter life beyond,

When we should dwell together as one heart, And scarce could wait that happy time to come. Now side by side we sit with lips quite dumb, And feel ourselves a thousand miles apart.

How was it that love died? I do not know. I only know that all its grace untold Has faded into gray! I miss the gold From our dull skies; but did not see it go.

Why should love die? We prized it, I am sure; We thought of nothing else when it was ours; We cherished it in smiling, sunlit bowers: It was our all; why could it not endure?

Alas, we know not how, or when, or why This dear thing died. We only know it went, And left us dull, cold, and indifferent; We who found heaven once in each other’s sigh.

How pitiful it is, and yet how true That half the lovers in the world, one day, Look questioning in each other’s eyes this way And know love’s gone forever, as we do.

Sometimes I cannot help but think, dear heart, As I look out o’er all the wide, sad earth And see love’s flame gone out on many a hearth, That those who would keep love must dwell apart.

LOVE’S SLEEP (Vers de Société)

We’ll cover Love with roses, And sweet sleep he shall take None but a fool supposes Love always keeps awake. I’ve known loves without number— True loves were they, and tried; And just for want of slumber They pined away and died.

Our love was bright and cheerful A little while agone; Now he is pale and tearful, And—yes, I’ve seen him yawn. So tired is he of kisses That he can only weep; The one dear thing he misses And longs for now is sleep.

We could not let him leave us One time, he was so dear, But now it would not grieve us If he slept half a year. For he has had his season, Like the lily and the rose, And it but stands to reason That he should want repose.

We prized the smiling Cupid Who made our days so bright; But he has grown so stupid We gladly say good-night. And if he wakens tender And fond, and fair as when He filled our lives with splendour, We’ll take him back again.

And should he never waken, As that perchance may be, We will not weep forsaken, But sing, “Love, tra-la-lee!”