File:The Cambridge book of poetry and song (1882) (14777946604).jpg

Identifier: cambridgebookofp00rog (find matches)
Title: The Cambridge book of poetry and song
Year: 1882 (1880s)
Authors: Rogé, Mme. Charlotte Fiske (Bates) 1838- ed. (from old catalog)
Subjects: English poetry American poetry
Publisher: New York, T. Y. Crowell & co
Contributing Library: The Library of Congress
Digitizing Sponsor: Sloan Foundation

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Text Appearing Before Image:
e! MY PLAYMATE. The pines were dark on Ilamoth hill,Their song was soft and low: The blossoms in the sweet May windWere falling like the snow. The blossoms drifted at our feet.The orchard birds sang clear: The sweetest and the saddest dayIt seemed of all the year. For, more to me than birds or flow-ers.My playmate left her home.And took with her the laughingspring.The music and the bloom. She kissed the lips of kith and kin,She laid her hand in mine; AVhat more could ask the bashfulboyWho fed her fathers kine ? She left us in the bloom of May:The constant years told oer Their seasons with as swett Maymorns.But she came back no more. I walk, with noiseless feet, the round Of uneventful years;Still oer and oer I sow the spring And reap the autumn ears. She lives where all the golden year Her summer roses blow;The dusky children of the sun Before her come and go. There haply with her jewelled handsShe smooths her silken gown, — No more the homespun lap wherein1 shook the walnuts dow n.
Text Appearing After Image:
nc PINES WERE DARK ON RAMOTH HILL. Page 64b WILDE. 647 The wild grapes wait us by the brook,Tlie brown nuts on the liill, And still the May-day flowers makesweetThe woods of Follymill. The lilies blossom in the pond,The bird builds iu the tree, The dark pines sing on Kamoth hillThe slow song of the sea. I wonder if she thinks of them,And how the old time seems. — If ever the pines of Kamoth wood.Are sounding in her dreams. I see her face, I hear her voice:Does she remember mine ? And what to her is now the boyWho fed her fathers kine ? What cares she that the orioles buildFor other eyes than ours, — That other hands with nuts are ttlled,And other laps with flowers ? O playmate in the golden time! Our mossy seat is green.Its fringing violets blossom yet, The old trees oer it lean. The winds so sweet with birch andfern A sweeter memory l)low;And there in spring the vecries sing The songs of long ago. And still the pines of Eamoth woodAre moaning like the sea, — The moaning of the

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