I. THE long days through I sit and sigh, alas! For love! Lone, beggar-like, beside the way I sit forlorn in lanes where Day must pass. I stretch imploring palms toward the Day, And cry, "O Day! but give me love! I die For love! I let all other gifts go by. Yea, bring me but one love that runs to waste, One love that men pass by in heedless haste, And I will kiss thy feet and ask no more From all To-morrow's rich, mysterious store." II. The drear days mock me in my mute request; The dark years roll like breakers on the shore, And die in futile thunder. As in jest, They bring bright, empty shells,—bring nothing more. Oh, say! is sweet Love dead and hid from all Who would disdain a colder touch than his? Then show me where Love lies. Put back the pall. Lo! I will fall upon his face and kiss Sweet Love to life again; or I will lie, Lamenting, prone beside his dust, and die. Ancona, 1874.

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Miller, Joaquin. Songs of Italy. Boston: Roberts Brothers, 1878. 102-103

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