Poetry Archives

A little maid, with sweet brown eyes,
Upraised to mine in sad surprise;
I held two tiny hands in mine,
  I kissed the little maid farewell.
Her cheeks to deeper crimson flushed,
  The sweet, shy glances downward fell;
From rosy lips came—ah! so low—
    “I love you, do not go!”

I see it through the lapse of years—
This picture, ofttimes blurred with tears.
No tiny hands in mine are held,
  No sweet brown eyes my pulses wake—
Only in memory a voice
  E’er bids me stay for love’s sweet sake.