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1849–1916

THEIR SWEET SORROW.

James Whitcomb Riley

They meet to say farewell: Their way Of saying this is hard to say.— He holds her hand an instant, wholly Distressed — and she unclasps it slowly.

He bends his gaze evasively Over the printed page that she Recurs to, with a new-moon shoulder Glimpsed from the lace-mists that enfold her.

The clock, beneath its crystal cup, Discreetly clicks — “Quick! Act! Speak up!” A tension circles both her slender Wrists — and her raised eyes flash in splendor,

Even as he feels his dazzled own.— Then, blindingly, round either thrown, They feel a stress of arms that ever Strain tremblingly — and “Never! Never!”

Is whispered brokenly, with half A sob, like a belated laugh,— While cloyingly their blurred kiss closes, Sweet as the dew's lip to the rose's.

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THEIR SWEET SORROW. · James Whitcomb Riley · Poetry Cove