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ONE'S OWN.

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

BLUE, wistful eyes, and hair

Brown-golden, and lips of rose?

And she is dead? Why, there

Are others, I suppose,

As fair: 't is a common thing

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(Why should you grieve for the past?)

To sleep . . . i' the dust, at last!

But . . . she was mine, you see.

Under the moon alone

I dream of a grave (ah, me!)

With its carven cross of stone . . .

There are others, you say, as sweet?

But I miss the eyes that sleep

Where the low dark woodbines creep.

And the dawn's wet wreath of pearl,

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