Poems (Allen)/In Illness

by Elizabeth Chase Allen

For works with similar titles, see In Illness.

IN ILLNESS.

HEN violets blossom in the spring,
  Dear heart,
And May-flowers nestle in the moss,
When the red-breasted robins sing,
And the glad sunshine smiles across
The new green earth, who dreams of loss,
  Or vainly grieves
At missing last year's faded leaves?

There will be violets in the spring,
  Dear heart;
But haply I shall not be here:
And will the brooks or robins sing
Less jocundly? Believe me, dear,
I am of autumn, faded, sere:
  And who would be
Sad in the spring-time, missing me

You pity me,—life seems to you,
  Dear heart,
So much a thing to be desired;
But I have toiled the wide world through,
My whole heart aches, and I am tired;
The aims to which my soul aspired
  Seem poor and small:
Only Love saves us, after all!

And mine has been so full of gloom,
  Dear heart,—
So twinned with sorrow or with fear,
It never came to perfect bloom;
And now the harvest time is here,
My fields lie bare. But you are dear,
  And I could die
Upon your breast without a sigh.

Now hush, O hush! I kiss your tears,
  Dear heart.
This grief is more than I can claim:
Whether I live to threescore years,
Or perish with this candle-flame,
I love and thank you all the same:
  Then, love, be still,
And let it be as God may will.