The Indiana State sentinel. [volume] (Indianapolis) 1868-1895, 1888-01-25
Entire Actes Reyries.

q.
Between the acts, while the orchestra played
That sweet old waltz with the lifting meas
ure,
drifted away to dear old day
When the dance for me was the sum of all
pleasure.
When my veins were rife with the fever of life,
When hope ran nigh as an unswept ocean,
And my hearts great gIadness was almost mad
ness
AsI fioated of to the musics motion.
How little cared for the world outside.
How little cared for the dull day after.
The thought Of trouble went up like bubble
on and the beat Of it. OH and the sweet Of It,
Melody, motion and young blood melted,
The dancers swaying, the players playing,
The air song-deluged and music peIted.
1 knew no WEAKNESS. no, notIl
Mystep was as light as the waving grasses
That fiutter with ease on the strong armed
Asst waitzes over the wild morasses.
Life was all sound and swing, youth was per
feet thing.
Night was the goddess OF satisfaction.
Oh, how ulpped away, right to the edge OF
Joy lay in motion. and rest lay in action.
dance no more on the music's wave
yield no more to its wildering power
That time has flown, like rose that is blown
Yet life is garden forever in flower.
Though storms of tears have watered the years
Between to-day and that day departed,
Tho trials have met me, and griefswsyes wet
me.
And have been tried and trouble-hearted.
Tho under the sod of wee green grave
great sweet hope in darkness persisted,
Yet life TO my thinking is q cup worth drinking,
gift to be glad Of, and loved and cherished.
There is deeper pleasure in the slower measure
That times grand orchestra now is giving;
It's mellOwed minor is sadder but finer,
And life grows daily more worth the living,
ELLA WHEELER WILCOX,
Uncertainties.
Pink linen bonnet,
Pink co ton gown,
Roses printed on it.
Hands burnt brown.
Oh! blithe were all the piping birds and the
And bhthe sang she on the doorstep, with her
apron full of peas,
Sound of scythe and moving.
Where buttercups grew tall;
Sound of red kline lowing.
And early milkmaids call.
Sweet she sang on the doorstep, with the young
And he came whistling up:the lane, with the
ribbons in his cap.
"You called me bad penny
That wouldn't be sent away
But here's goodbye to you, Jenny,
For many and many day.
There's talk of cannon and killing
Nay, never turn so white
And I've taken the kings shilling
took it last night"
Oh. merry. merry plped the thrushes up in the
cherry tree,
| But dumb she sat on the doorstep, and out
| through the cate went he.
| Scent of hay and summer;
| Red evening sky;
| Noise of fife and drummer:
| Men marching by.
| The hay will be carried presently, and the cher
| Ties gathered all,
| And the corn stand yellow In the shocks, and
| the leaves begin to TALL.
| Perhaps some evening after,
With no more song OF thrush,
The lads will cease their laughter,
And the maids their chatter hush;
And word of blood and battle
Will mix with the sound OF the hail,
AND the lowing OF the cattle,
And clink OF the milking pail;
And one will read half fearful
| A list of names aloud:
| And few will stagger fearful
| Out of the little crowd;
And She perhaps half doubling
| Halt knowing why she came,
| Will stand among them, poutiHg
And hear, perhaps, his name
Will weep, perhaps, a little, as she wanders up
| the lane,
And wish one summer morning were all to dc
again. MAY PRoBYN.