Heart Songs. Jean Blewett

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СКАЧАТЬ href="#ulink_19319017-d12e-5ed6-9cab-8369e96cc158">Two Creeds

       His Ex-Platonic Friend

       The Grave

       Settled by Arbitration

       The Circuit

       Gethsemane

       My Friend

       The Prodigal

       At Quebec

       The Tea Kettle’s Tune

       The Creed of Love

       In the Clover Field

       Lullaby

       A Sunset Talk

       Truth upon Honor

       Elspeth’s Daughter-in-law

       Cold Water

       Long Time Ago

       The Meanest Man

Wooing His Valentine

       Table of Contents

      IF I could speak in phrases fine,

       Full sweet the words that I would say

       To woo you for my valentine

       Upon this February day.

      But when I strive to tell you all,

       The charms I see in your dear face,

       A dumbness on me seems to fall—

       O, sweetheart, let me crave your grace!

      I fain would say your eyes of blue,

       Like violets to me appear;

       Shy blossoms, filled with heaven’s dew,

       That throw their sweetness far and near.

      How tender are your lips of red!

       How like a rose each velvet cheek!

       How bright the gold upon your head—

       All this I’d say, if I could speak.

      How warm your blushes come and go!

       How maidenly your air and mien!

       How pure the glances you bestow—

       Wilt be my Valentine, O Queen?

      The angels walking at your side,

       Methinks have lent their charms to you,

       For in the world so big and wide,

       There is not one so good and true.

      If I had but the gift of speech,

       Your beauty and your grace to prove,

       Then might I find a way to reach

       Your heart, and all its wealth of love.

      Then, sweetheart, take the good intent—

       Truth has no need of phrases fine—

       Repay what long ago I lent,

       And be to-day my Valentine.

Jealous, Sweetheart?

       Table of Contents

      A STEP on the walk she’s waiting to hear—

       Waiting—waiting—

       There’s a frown on her face—pouting ’tis clear,

       Ah, someone is late in coming I fear.

       All lovers are very fickle, my dear,

       Waiting, waiting!

      Only last week he was praising up Nell—

       Praising—praising—

       Saying her voice was clear as a bell,

       Thinking her fairer, and who is to tell

       All that he said as they walked through the dell?

       Praising, praising!

      Perhaps he is with her this summer night—

       Who knows? Who knows?

       Perhaps he is holding her hand so white,

       Perhaps he is watching her eyes so bright,

       Perhaps he is wooing with all his might,

       Who knows? Who knows?

      Perhaps he is saying, “I love you best!”

       Who cares? Who cares?

       No need to carry a weight on one’s breast,

       No need to worry and lose one’s rest,

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