Poems by Theodosia Garrison

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My love it should be silent, being deep--
I am as weary as a child
God send thee peace, Oh, great unhappy heart--
I like to think this friendship that we hold
Sometimes, slow moving through unlovely days,
"Black Sheep, Black Sheep,
A hundred miles between us
Good-bye, Pierrette. The new moon waits
Oh, Heart of a Hundred Sorrows,
The houseful that we were then, you could count us by the dozens,
Never did I find me mate for charmin' an' delightin',
My father took me by the hand
Monseigneur plays his new gavotte--
Mothers of men--the words are good indeed in the saying,
I saw the old sea captain in his city daughter's house,
Orchards in the Spring-time! Oh, I think and think of them,--
The kindliest thing God ever made,
Katie had the grand eyes and Delia had a way with her,
It was not then her heart broke--
When the white dawn comes
Good-bye, my song--I, who found words for sorrow,
The burden that I bear would be no less
I must be off where the green boughs beckon--
I call my years back, I, grown old,
A great king made a feast for Love,
The gypsies passed her little gate--
April will come to the quiet town
The pick o' seven counties, so they're tellin' me, was there,
The heart of me's an empty thing, that never stirs at all
I wish we might go gypsying one day the while we're young--
I never climb a high hill
I'm askin' you'll be easy for a bit, Sir,
My little joys went by me
So quietly I seem to sit apart;
The long grief left her old--and then
They brought to the little Princess, from her earliest hour of birth,
He made him a love o' dreams--
My poplars are like ladies trim,
I lost Young Love so long ago
I come to you grown weary of much laughter,
I said I will go back again where we
I took the love you gave, Ah, carelessly,
For mocking on men's faces
The moon to-night is like the sun
All that I know of love I see
Comin' or goin' still they spread the news,
They do not know the awful tears we shed,
The Angel of the night when night was gone
The little dream she had forgot
She put her wedding-gown away
White rose-leaves in my hands,
My lilies are like nuns in white
Will the garden never forget
They are ashamed who leave so soon
Below them in the twilight the quiet village lies,
Your chosen grasp the torch of faith--the key
High above his happy head
What do they know of youth, who still are young?