The Tri Weekly News

POETRY.
ARRIERE PENSEE.

He wraps me round with his riches,
He covers me up with his care,
And his love is the love of a manhood,
Whose life is a living prayer

I have plighted my woman's affections,
I have given my all in all,
And the flowers of a daily contentment
Renew their sweet lives ere the fall.

And yet like an instrument precious,
That playeth in an olden tune,
My heart in the midst of its blessings,
Goes back to a day in June--

To a day when beneath the branches
I stood by a silent stream,
And saw in its bosom an image
As one seeth a face in a dream.

I would not resign his devotion,
No, not for a heart that lives!
Nor change one jot my condition
For the change that condition gives;

I should mourn not more for another,
Nor more for another rejoice,
Than now, when I weep at his absence,
Or welcome his step and his voice.

And yet like an instrument precious,
That playeth an olden tune,
My heart in the midst of its blessings,
Goes back to a day in June--

To a day when beneath the branches
I stood in the shadowy light,
And heard the low words of a whisper
As one heareth a voice in the night.