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  Eloise  

 

                        Eloise! Eloise!
        It is morn on the seas,
And the waters are curling and flashing;
        And our rock-sheltered seat,
        Where the waves ever beat
With a cadenced and rhythmical dashing,
                Is here--just here,
                But I miss thee, dear!
And the sun-beams around me are flashing
        O seat, by the lonely sea,
        O seat, that she shared with me,
                Thou art all unfilled to day!
                And the plaintive, grieving main
                Hath a moan of hopeless pain
                That it had not yesterday.

                        Eloise! Eloise!
        It is noon; and the breeze
Through the shadowy woodland is straying;
        And our green, mossy seat,
        Where the flowers kissed thy feet
While the zephyrs around thee were playing,
                Is here--just here;
                But I miss thee, dear!
And the breezes around me are straying.
        O seat, by the greenwood tree,
        O seat, that she shared with me,
                Thou art all unfilled to-day!
                And the sighing, shivering leaves
                Have a voice like one that grieves
                That they had not yesterday.

                        Eloise! Eloise!
        It is eve; and the trees
With the gold of the sunset are glowing;
        And our low, grassy seat,
        With the brook at its feet
Ever singing, and rippling, and flowing,
                Is here--just here;
                But I miss thee, dear!
And the sunset is over me glowing.
        O seat, by the brooklet free,
        O seat, that she shared with me,
                Thou art all unfilled to-day!
                And the brook, to me alone,
                Hath a tender, grieving tone,
                That it had not yesterday.

                        Eloise! Eloise!
        It is night on the seas,
And the winds and the waters are sleeping;
        And the seat where we prayed,
        'Neath our home's blessed shade,
With the soft shadows over us creeping,
                Is here-just here;
                But I miss thee, dear!
And the drear night around me is sleeping.
        O seat, where she prayed of yore,
        O seat, where she prays no more,
                I am kneeling alone to-night!
                And the stern, unyielding grave
                Will restore not the gift I gave
                To its bosom yesternight.

       - Mrs. J. C. Yule


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