And he had learned, among his books That held the lore of ages olden, To watch those ever-changing looks, The wistful eyes, the tresses golden, That stirred his pulse with passion's pain And thrilled his soul with soft desire, And bade fond youth return again, Crowned with its coronet of fire.

Her sunny smile, her winsome ways, Were more to him than all his knowledge, And she preferred his words of praise To all the honors of the college. Yet "What am foolish I to him?" She whispered to her heart's confessor. "She thinks me old and gray and grim," In silence pondered the professor.

Yet once when Christmas bells were rung Above ten thousand solemn churches, And swelling anthems grandly sung Pealed through the dim cathedral arches,— Ere home returning, filled with hope, Softly she stole by gate and gable, And a sweet spray of heliotrope Left on his littered study-table.

Nor came she more from day to day Like sunshine through the shadows rifting: Above her grave, far, far away, The ever-silent snows were drifting; And those who mourned her winsome face Found in its stead a swift successor And loved another in her place— All, save the silent old professor.

But, in the tender twilight gray, Shut from the sight of carping critic, His lonely thoughts would often stray From Vedic verse and tongues Semitic, Bidding the ghost of vanished hope Mock with its past the sad possessor Of the dead spray of heliotrope That once she gave the old professor.

Harry Thurston Peck [1856-1914]



"LYDIA IS GONE THIS MANY A YEAR"

Lydia is gone this many a year, Yet when the lilacs stir, In the old gardens far or near, This house is full of her.

They climb the twisted chamber stair; Her picture haunts the room; On the carved shelf beneath it there, They heap the purple bloom.

A ghost so long has Lydia been, Her cloak upon the wall, Broidered, and gilt, and faded green, Seems not her cloak at all.

The book, the box on mantle laid, The shells in a pale row, Are those of some dim little maid, A thousand years ago.

And yet the house is full of her; She goes and comes again; And longings thrill, and memories stir, Like lilacs in the rain.

Out in their yards the neighbors walk, Among the blossoms tall; Of Anne, of Phyllis do they talk, Of Lydia not at all.

Lizette Woodworth Reese [1856-1935]



AFTER

Oh, the littles that remain! Scent of mint out in the lane; Flare of window, sound of bees;— These, but these.

Three times sitting down to bread; One time climbing up to bed; Table-setting o'er and o'er; Drying herbs for winter's store; This thing; that thing;—nothing more.

But just now out in the lane, Oh, the scent of mint was plain!

Lizette Woodworth Reese [1856-1935]



MEMORIES

Of my ould loves, of their ould ways, I sit an' think, these bitther days.

(I've kissed—'gainst rason an' 'gainst rhyme— More mouths than one in my mad time!)

Of their soft ways an' words I dream, But far off now, in faith, they seem.

Wid betther lives, wid betther men, They've all long taken up again!

For me an' mine they're past an' done— Aye, all but one—yes, all but one!

Since I kissed her 'neath Tullagh Hill That one gerrl stays close wid me still.

Och! up to mine her face still lifts, An' round us still the white May drifts;

An' her soft arm, in some ould way, Is here beside me, night an' day;

But, faith, 'twas her they buried deep, Wid all that love she couldn't keep,

Aye, deep an' cold, in Killinkere, This many a year—this many a year!

Arthur Stringer [1874-



TO DIANE

The ruddy poppies bend and bow, Diane! do you remember? The sun you knew shines proudly now, The lake still lists the breezes vow, Your towers are fairer for their stains, Each stone you smiled upon remains. Sing low—where is Diane? Diane! do you remember?

I come to find you through the years, Diane! do you remember? For none may rule my love's soft fears. The ladies now are not your peers, I seek you through your tarnished halls, Pale sorrow on my spirit falls, High, low—where is Diane? Diane! do you remember?

I crush the poppies where I tread, Diane! do you remember? Your flower of life, so bright, so red— She does not hear—Diane is dead. I pace the sunny bowers alone Where naught of her remains but stone. Sing low—where is Diane? Diane does not remember.

Helen Hay Whitney [18—



"MUSIC I HEARD"

Music I heard with you was more than music, And bread I broke with you was more than bread. Now that I am without you, all is desolate, All that was once so beautiful is dead.

Your hands once touched this table and this silver, And I have seen your fingers hold this glass. These things do not remember you, beloved: And yet your touch upon them will not pass.

For it was in my heart you moved among them, And blessed them with your hands and with your eyes. And in my heart they will remember always: They knew you once, O beautiful and wise!

Conrad Aiken [1889-



HER DWELLING-PLACE

Amid the fairest things that grow My lady hath her dwelling-place; Where runnels flow, and frail buds blow As shy and pallid as her face.

The wild, bright creatures of the wood About her fearless flit and spring; To light her dusky solitude Comes April's earliest offering.

The calm Night from her urn of rest Pours downward an unbroken stream; All day upon her mother's breast My lady lieth in a dream.

Love could not chill her low, soft bed With any sad memorial stone; He put a red rose at her head— A flame as fragrant as his own.

Ada Foster Murray [1857-1936]



THE WIFE FROM FAIRYLAND

Her talk was all of woodland things, Of little lives that pass Away in one green afternoon, Deep in the haunted grass;

For she had come from fairyland, The morning of a day When the world that still was April Was turning into May.

Green leaves and silence and two eyes— 'Twas so she seemed to me, A silver shadow of the woods, Whisper and mystery.

I looked into her woodland eyes, And all my heart was hers, And then I led her by the hand Home up my marble stairs;

And all my granite and my gold Was hers for her green eyes, And all my sinful heart was hers From sunset to sunrise;

I gave her all delight and ease That God had given to me, I listened to fulfil her dreams, Rapt with expectancy.

But all I gave, and all I did, Brought but a weary smile Of gratitude upon her face; As though a little while,

She loitered in magnificence Of marble and of gold, And waited to be home again When the dull tale was told.

Sometimes, in the chill galleries, Unseen, she deemed, unheard, I found her dancing like a leaf And singing like a bird.

So lone a thing I never saw In lonely earth or sky, So merry and so sad a thing, One sad, one laughing, eye.

There came a day when on her heart A wildwood blossom lay, And the world that still was April Was turning into May.

In the green eyes I saw a smile That turned my heart to stone: My wife that came from fairyland No longer was alone.

For there had come a little hand To show the green way home, Home through the leaves, home through the dew, Home through the greenwood—home.

Richard Le Gallienne [1866-



IN THE FALL O' YEAR

I went back an old-time lane In the fall o' year, There was wind and bitter rain And the leaves were sere.

Once the birds were lilting high In a far-off May— I remember, you and I Were as glad as they.

But the branches now are bare And the lad you knew, Long ago was buried there— Long ago, with you!

Thomas S. Jones, Jr. [1882-1932]



THE INVISIBLE BRIDE

The low-voiced girls that go In gardens of the Lord, Like flowers of the field they grow In sisterly accord.

Their whispering feet are white Along the leafy ways; They go in whirls of light Too beautiful for praise.

And in their band forsooth Is one to set me free— The one that touched my youth— The one God gave to me.

She kindles the desire Whereby the gods survive— The white ideal fire That keeps my soul alive.

Now at the wondrous hour, She leaves her star supreme, And comes in the night's still power, To touch me with a dream.

Sibyl of mystery On roads beyond our ken, Softly she comes to me, And goes to God again.

Edwin Markham [1852-



RAIN ON A GRAVE

Clouds spout upon her Their waters amain In ruthless disdain,— Her who but lately Had shivered with pain As at touch of dishonor If there had lit on her So coldly, so straightly Such arrows of rain.

She who to shelter Her delicate head Would quicken and quicken Each tentative tread If drops chanced to pelt her That summertime spills In dust-paven rills When thunder-clouds thicken And birds close their bills.

Would that I lay there And she were housed here! Or better, together Were folded away there Exposed to one weather We both,—who would stray there When sunny the day there, Or evening was clear At the prime of the year.

Soon will be growing Green blades from her mound, And daisies be showing Like stars on the ground, Till she form part of them— Ay—the sweet heart of them, Loved beyond measure With a child's pleasure All her life's round.

Thomas Hardy [1840-1928]



PATTERNS

I walk down the garden paths, And all the daffodils Are blowing, and the bright blue squills. I walk down the patterned garden-paths In my stiff, brocaded gown. With my powdered hair and jewelled fan, I too am a rare Pattern. As I wander down The garden paths.

My dress is richly figured, And the train Makes a pink and silver stain On the gravel, and the thrift Of the borders. Just a plate of current fashion, Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes. Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whale-bone and brocade. And I sink on a seat in the shade Of a lime-tree. For my passion Wars against the stiff brocade. The daffodils and squills Flutter in the breeze As they please. And I weep; For the lime-tree is in blossom And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.

And the plashing of waterdrops In the marble fountain Comes down the garden-paths. The dripping never stops. Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin, A basin in the midst of hedges grown So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding. But she guesses he is near, And the sliding of the water Seems the stroking of a dear Hand upon her. What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown! I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground. All the pink and silver crumpled upon the ground.

I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths, And he would stumble after, Bewildered by my laughter. I should see the sun flashing from his sword-hilt and the buckles on his shoes. I would choose To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths, A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover, Till he caught me in the shade, And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me, Aching, melting, unafraid. With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops, And the plopping of the waterdrops, All about us in the open afternoon— I am very like to swoon With the weight of this brocade, For the sun sifts through the shade.

Underneath the fallen blossom In my bosom, Is a letter I have hid. It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke. "Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell Died in action Thursday se'nnight." As I read it in the white, morning sunlight, The letters squirmed like snakes. "Any answer, Madam?" said my footman. "No," I told him. "See that the messenger takes some refreshment. No, no answer." And I walked into the garden, Up and down the patterned paths, In my stiff, correct brocade. The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun, Each one. I stood upright too, Held rigid to the pattern By the stiffness of my gown. Up and down I walked, Up and down.

In a month he would have been my husband. In a month, here, underneath this lime, We would have broke the pattern; He for me, and I for him, He as Colonel, I as Lady, On this shady seat. He had a whim That sunlight carried blessing. And I answered, "It shall be as you have said." Now he is dead.

In Summer and in Winter I shall walk Up and down The patterned garden-paths In my stiff, brocaded gown. The squills and daffodils Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow. I shall go Up and down, In my gown. Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed. And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace By each button, hook, and lace. For the man who should loose me is dead, Fighting with the Duke in Flanders, In a pattern called a war. Christ! What are patterns for?

Amy Lowell [1874-1925]



DUST

When the white flame in us is gone, And we that lost the world's delight Stiffen in darkness, left alone To crumble in our separate night;

When your swift hair is quiet in death, And through the lips corruption thrust Has stilled the labor of my breath— When we are dust, when we are dust!—

Not dead, not undesirous yet, Still sentient, still unsatisfied, We'll ride the air, and shine, and flit, Around the places where we died,

And dance as dust before the sun, And light of foot, and unconfined, Hurry from road to road, and run About the errands of the wind.

And every mote, on earth or air, Will speed and gleam, down later days, And like a secret pilgrim fare By eager and invisible ways,

Nor ever rest, nor ever lie, Till, beyond thinking, out of view, One mote of all the dust that's I Shall meet one atom that was you.

Then in some garden hushed from wind, Warm in a sunset's afterglow, The lovers in the flowers will find A sweet and strange unquiet grow

Upon the peace; and, past desiring, So high a beauty in the air, And such a light, and such a quiring, And such a radiant ecstasy there,

They'll know not if it's fire, or dew, Or out of earth, or in the height, Singing, or flame, or scent, or hue, Or two that pass, in light, to light,

Out of the garden, higher, higher.... But in that instant they shall learn The shattering ecstasy of our fire, And the weak passionless hearts will burn

And faint in that amazing glow, Until the darkness close above; And they will know—poor fools, they'll know!— One moment, what it is to love.

Rupert Brooke [1887-1915]



BALLAD

The roses in my garden Were white in the noonday sun, But they were dyed with crimson Before the day was done.

All clad in golden armor, To fight the Saladin, He left me in my garden, To weep, to sing, and spin.

When fell the dewy twilight I heard the wicket grate, There came a ghost who shivered Beside my garden gate.

All clad in golden armor, But dabbled with red dew; He did not lift his vizor, And yet his face I knew.

And when he left my garden The roses all were red And dyed in a fresh crimson; Only my heart was dead.

The roses in my garden Were white in the noonday sun; But they were dyed with crimson Before the day was done.

Maurice Baring [1874-



"THE LITTLE ROSE IS DUST, MY DEAR"

The little rose is dust, my dear; The elfin wind is gone That sang a song of silver words And cooled our hearts with dawn.

And what is left to hope, my dear, Or what is left to say? The rose, the little wind and you Have gone so far away.

Grace Hazard Conkling [18



DIRGE

Never the nightingale, Oh, my dear, Never again the lark Thou wilt hear; Though dusk and the morning still Tap at thy window-sill, Though ever love call and call Thou wilt not hear at all, My dear, my dear.

Adelaide Crapsey [1878-1914]



THE LITTLE RED RIBBON

The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose! The summertime comes, and the summertime goes— And never a blossom in all of the land As white as the gleam of her beckoning hand!

The long winter months, and the glare of the snows; The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose! And never a glimmer of sun in the skies As bright as the light of her glorious eyes!

Dreams only are true: but they fade and are gone— For her face is not here when I waken at dawn; The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose Mine only; hers only the dream and repose.

I am weary of waiting, and weary of tears, And my heart wearies, too, all these desolate years, Moaning over the one only song that it knows,— The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose!

James Whitcomb Riley [1849-1916]



THE ROSARY

The hours I spent with thee, dear heart, Are as a string of pearls to me; I count them over, every one apart, My rosary.

Each hour a pearl, each pearl a prayer, To still a heart in absence wrung; I tell each bead unto the end and there A cross is hung.

Oh memories that bless—and burn! Oh barren gain—and bitter loss! I kiss each bead, and strive at last to learn To kiss the cross, Sweetheart, To kiss the cross.

Robert Cameron Rogers [1862-1912]



LOVE'S FULFILMENT



"MY TRUE-LOVE HATH MY HEART" From the "Arcadia"

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his, By just exchange one for the other given: I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss; There never was a better bargain driven; His heart in me keeps him and me in one, My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides: He loves my heart, for once it was his own, I cherish his, because in me it bides.

His heart his wound received from my sight; My heart was wounded from his wounded heart; For as from me, on him his hurt did light, So still me thought in me his heart did smart: Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss, My true love hath my heart, and I have his.

Philip Sidney [1554-1586]



SONG

O sweet delight, O more than human bliss, With her to live that ever loving is! To hear her speak whose words are so well placed That she by them, as they in her are graced: Those looks to view that feast the viewer's eye, How blest is he that may so live and die!

Such love as this the Golden Times did know, When all did reap, yet none took care to sow; Such love as this an endless summer makes, And all distaste from frail affection takes. So loved, so blest, in my beloved am I: Which till their eyes ache, let iron men envy!

Thomas Campion [?—1619]



THE GOOD-MORROW

I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I Did, till we loved? were we not weaned till then? But sucked on country pleasures, childishly? Or snored we in the Seven Sleepers' den? 'Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be; If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee.

And now good-morrow to our waking souls, Which watch not one another out of fear; For love all love of other sights controls, And makes one little room an everywhere. Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone; Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown, Let us possess one world; each hath one, and is one.

My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears, And true plain hearts do in the faces rest; Where can we find two fitter hemispheres Without sharp north, without declining west? Whatever dies, was not mixed equally; If our two loves be one, or thou and I Love just alike in all, none of these loves can die.

John Donne [1573-1631]



"THERE'S GOWD IN THE BREAST"

There's gowd in the breast of the primrose pale, An' siller in every blossom; There's riches galore in the breeze of the vale, And health in the wild wood's bosom. Then come, my love, at the hour of joy, When warbling birds sing o'er us; Sweet nature for us has no alloy, And the world is all before us.

The courtier joys in hustle and power, The soldier in war-steeds bounding, The miser in hoards of treasured ore, The proud in their pomp surrounding: But we hae yon heaven sae bonnie and blue, And laverocks skimming o'er us; The breezes of health, and the valleys of dew— Oh, the world is all before us!

James Hogg [1770-1835]



THE BEGGAR MAID

Her arms across her breast she laid; She was more fair than words can say: Bare footed came the beggar maid Before the king Cophetua. In robe and crown the king stepped down, To meet and greet her on her way; "It is no wonder," said the lords, "She is more beautiful than day."

As shines the moon in clouded skies, She in her poor attire was seen: One praised her ankles, one her eyes, One her dark hair and lovesome mien. So sweet a face, such angel grace, In all that land had never been: Cophetua sware a royal oath: "This beggar maid shall be my queen!"

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]



REFUGE

Twilight, a timid fawn, went glimmering by, And Night, the dark-blue hunter, followed fast, Ceaseless pursuit and flight were in the sky, But the long chase had ceased for us at last.

We watched together while the driven fawn Hid in the golden thicket of the day. We, from whose hearts pursuit and flight were gone, Knew on the hunter's breast her refuge lay.

A. E. (George William Russell) [1867-1935]



AT SUNSET

Clasp her and hold her and love her, Here in the arching green Of boughs that bend above her With belts of blue between.

Clasp her and hold her and love her, Swift! Ere the splendor dies; The blue grows black above her, The earth in shadow lies.

Flowers of dream enfold her. Soft! Let me bend above, Clasp her and love her and hold her, Clasp her and hold and love.

Louis V. Ledoux [1880-



"ONE MORNING, OH! SO EARLY"

One morning, oh! so early, my beloved, my beloved, All the birds were singing blithely, as if never they would cease; 'Twas a thrush sang in my garden, "Hear the story, hear the story!" And the lark sang, "Give us glory!" And the dove said, "Give us peace!"

Then I hearkened, oh! so early, my beloved, my beloved, To that murmur from the woodland of the dove, my dear, the dove; When the nightingale came after, "Give us fame to sweeten duty!" When the wren sang, "Give us beauty!" She made answer, "Give us love!"

Sweet is spring, and sweet the morning, my beloved, my beloved; Now for us doth spring, doth morning, wait upon the year's increase, And my prayer goes up, "Oh, give us, crowned in youth with marriage glory, Give for all our life's dear story, Give us love, and give us peace!"

Jean Ingelow [1820-1897]



ACROSS THE DOOR

The fiddles were playing and playing, The couples were out on the floor; From converse and dancing he drew me, And across the door.

Ah! strange were the dim, wide meadows, And strange was the cloud-strewn sky, And strange in the meadows the corncrakes, And they making cry!

The hawthorn bloom was by us, Around us the breath of the south. White hawthorn, strange in the night-time— His kiss on my mouth!

Padraic Colum [1881-



MAY MARGARET

If you be that May Margaret That lived on Kendal Green, Then where's that sunny hair of yours That crowned you like a queen? That sunny hair is dim, lad, They said was like a crown— The red gold turned to gray, lad, The night a ship went down.

If you be yet May Margaret, May Margaret now as then, Then where's that bonny smile of yours That broke the hearts of men? The bonny smile is wan, lad, That once was glad as day— And oh! 'tis weary smiling To keep the tears away.

If you be that May Margaret, As yet you swear to me, Then where's that proud, cold heart of yours That sent your love to sea? Ah, me! that heart is broken, The proud, cold heart has bled For one light word outspoken, For all the love unsaid.

Then Margaret, my Margaret, If all you say be true, Your hair is yet the sunniest gold, Your eyes the sweetest blue. And dearer yet and fairer yet For all the coming years— The fairer for the waiting, The dearer for the tears!

Theophile Marzials [1850-



RONDEL

Kissing her hair, I sat against her feet, Wove and unwove it, wound and found it sweet; Made fast therewith her hands, drew down her eyes, Deep as deep flowers and dreamy like dim skies; With her own tresses bound and found her fair, Kissing her hair.

Sleep were no sweeter than her face to me, Sleep of cold sea-bloom under the cold sea; What pain could get between my face and hers? What new sweet thing would love not relish worse? Unless, perhaps, white death had kissed me there, Kissing her hair.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]



A SPRING JOURNEY

We journeyed through broad woodland ways, My Love and I. The maples set the shining fields ablaze. The blue May sky Brought to us its great Spring surprise; While we saw all things through each other's eyes.

And sometimes from a steep hillside Shone fair and bright The shadhush, like a young June bride, Fresh clothed in white. Sometimes came glimpses glad of the blue sea; But I smiled only on my Love; he smiled on me.

The violets made a field one mass of blue— Even bluer than the sky; The little brook took on that color too, And sang more merrily. "Your dress is blue," he laughing said. "Your eyes," My heart sang, "sweeter than the bending skies."

We spoke of poets dead so long ago, And their wise words; We glanced at apple-trees, like drifted snow; We watched the nesting birds,— Only a moment! Ah, how short the day! Yet all the winters cannot blow its sweetness quite away.

Alice Freeman Palmer [1855-1902]



THE BROOKSIDE

I wandered by the brookside, I wandered by the mill; I could not hear the brook flow,— The noisy wheel was still; There was no burr of grasshopper, No chirp of any bird, But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.

I sat beneath the elm-tree; I watched the long, long shade, And, as it grew still longer, I did not feel afraid; For I listened, for a footfall, I listened for a word,— But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.

He came not,—no, he came not,— The night came on alone,— The little stars sat, one by one, Each on his golden throne; The evening wind passed by my cheek, The leaves above were stirred,— But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.

Fast silent tears were flowing, When something stood behind; A hand was on my shoulder,— I knew its touch was kind: It drew me nearer,—nearer,— We did not speak one word, For the beating of our own hearts Was all the sound we heard.

Richard Monckton Milnes [1809-1885]



SONG

For me the jasmine buds unfold And silver daisies star the lea, The crocus hoards the sunset gold, And the wild rose breathes for me. I feel the sap through the bough returning, I share the skylark's transport fine, I know the fountain's wayward yearning; I love, and the world is mine!

I love, and thoughts that sometime grieved, Still well remembered, grieve not me; From all that darkened and deceived Upsoars my spirit free. For soft the hours repeat one story, Sings the sea one strain divine, My clouds arise all flushed with glory; I love, and the world is mine!

Florence Earle Coates [1850-1927]



WHAT MY LOVER SAID

By the merest chance, in the twilight gloom, In the orchard path he met me; In the tall, wet grass, with its faint perfume, And I tried to pass, but he made no room, Oh, I tried, but he would not let me. So I stood and blushed till the grass grew red, With my face bent down above it, While he took my hand as he whispering said— (How the clover lifted each pink, sweet head, To listen to all that my lover said; Oh, the clover in bloom, I love it!)

In the high, wet grass went the path to hide, And the low, wet leaves hung over; But I could not pass upon either side, For I found myself, when I vainly tried, In the arms of my steadfast lover. And he held me there and he raised my head, While he closed the path before me, And he looked down into my eyes and said— (How the leaves bent down from the boughs o'erhead To listen to all that my lover said, Oh, the leaves hanging lowly o'er me!)

Had he moved aside but a little way, I could surely then have passed him; And he knew I never could wish to stay, And would not have heard what he had to say, Could I only aside have cast him. It was almost dark, and the moments sped, And the searching night wind found us, But he drew me nearer and softly said— (How the pure, sweet wind grew still, instead, To listen to all that my lover said; Oh, the whispering wind around us!)

I am sure he knew when he held me fast, That I must be all unwilling; For I tried to go, and I would have passed, As the night was come with its dew, at last, And the sky with its stars was filling. But he clasped me close when I would have fled, And he made me hear his story, And his soul came out from his lips and said— (How the stars crept out where the white moon led, To listen to all that my lover said; Oh, the moon and the stars in glory!)

I know that the grass and the leaves will not tell, And I'm sure that the wind, precious rover, Will carry my secret so safely and well That no being shall ever discover One word of the many that rapidly fell From the soul-speaking lips of my lover; And the moon and the stars that looked over Shall never reveal what a fairy-like spell They wove round about us that night in the dell, In the path through the dew-laden clover, Nor echo the whispers that made my heart swell As they fell from the lips of my lover.

Homer Greene [1853-



MAY-MUSIC

Oh! lose the winter from thine heart, the darkness from thine eyes, And from the low hearth-chair of dreams, my Love-o'-May, arise; And let the maidens robe thee like a white white-lilac tree, Oh! hear the call of Spring, fair Soul,—and wilt thou come with me?

Even so, and even so! Whither thou goest, I will go. I will follow thee.

Then wilt thou see the orange trees star-flowering over Spain, Or arched and mounded Kaiser-towns that molder mid Almain, Or through the cypress-gardens go of magic Italy? Oh East or West or South or North, say, wilt thou come with me?

Even so, or even so! Whither thou goest, I will go. I will follow thee.

But wilt thou farther come with me through hawthorn red and white Until we find the wall that hides the Land of Heart's Delight? The gates all carved with olden things are strange and dread to see: But I will lift thee through, fair Soul. Arise and come with me!

Even so, Love, even so! Whither thou goest, I will go! Lo, I follow thee.

Rachel Annand Taylor [18—



SONG

Flame at the core of the world, And flame in the red rose-tree; The one is the fire of the ancient spheres, The other is Junes to be; And, oh, there's a flame that is both their flames Here at the heart of me!

As strong as the fires of stars, As the prophet rose-tree true, The fire of my life is tender and wild, Its beauty is old and new; For out of the infinite past it came With the love in the eyes of you!

Arthur Upson [1877-1908]



A MEMORY

The night walked down the sky With the moon in her hand; By the light of that yellow lantern I saw you stand.

The hair that swept your shoulders Was yellow, too, Your feet as they touched the grasses Shamed the dew.

The Night wore all her jewels, And you wore none, But your gown had the odor of lilies Drenched with sun.

And never was Eve of the Garden Or Mary the Maid More pure than you as you stood there Bold, yet afraid.

And the sleeping birds woke, trembling, And the folded flowers were aware, And my senses were faint with the fragrant Gold of your hair.

And our lips found ways of speaking What words cannot say, Till a hundred nests gave music, And the East was gray.

Frederic Lawrence Knowles [1869-1905]



LOVE TRIUMPHANT

Helen's lips are drifting dust; Ilion is consumed with rust; All the galleons of Greece Drink the ocean's dreamless peace; Lost was Solomon's purple show Restless centuries ago; Stately empires wax and wane— Babylon, Barbary, and Spain;— Only one thing, undefaced, Lasts, though all the worlds lie waste And the heavens are overturned. —Dear, how long ago we learned!

There's a sight that blinds the sun, Sound that lives when sounds are done, Music that rebukes the birds, Language lovelier than words, Hue and scent that shame the rose, Wine no earthly vineyard knows, Silence stiller than the shore Swept by Charon's stealthy oar, Ocean more divinely free Than Pacific's boundless sea,— Ye who love have learned it true. —Dear, how long ago we knew!

Frederic Lawrence Knowles [1869-1905]



LINES

Love within the lover's breast Burns like Hesper in the West, O'er the ashes of the sun, Till the day and night are done; Then, when dawn drives up his car— Lo! it is the morning star.

Love! thy love pours down on mine, As the sunlight on the vine, As the snow rill on the vale, As the salt breeze on the sail; As the song unto the bird On my lips thy name is heard.

As a dewdrop on the rose In thy heart my passion glows; As a skylark to the sky, Up into thy breast I fly; As a sea-shell of the sea Ever shall I sing of thee.

George Meredith [1828-1909]



LOVE AMONG THE RUINS

Where the quiet-colored end of evening smiles Miles and miles On the solitary pastures where our sheep Half-asleep Tinkle homeward through the twilight, stray or stop As they crop— Was the site once of a city great and gay, (So they say) Of our country's very capital, its prince Ages since Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far Peace or war.

Now,—the country does not even boast a tree, As you see, To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills From the hills Intersect and give a name to (else they run Into one), Where the domed and daring palace shot its spires Up like fires O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall Bounding all, Made of marble, men might march on nor be pressed, Twelve abreast.

And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass Never was! Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'erspreads And embeds Every vestige of the city, guessed alone, Stock or stone— Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe Long ago; Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame Struck them tame; And that glory and that shame alike, the gold Bought and sold.

Now,—the single little turret that remains On the plains, By the caper overrooted, by the gourd Overscored, While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winks Through the chinks— Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time Sprang sublime, And a burning ring, all round, the chariots traced As they raced, And the monarch and his minions and his dames Viewed the games.

And I know, while thus the quiet-colored eve Smiles to leave To their folding, all our many-tinkling fleece In such peace, And the slopes and rills in undistinguished gray Melt away— That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair Waits me there In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul For the goal, When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb, Till I come.

But he looked upon the city, every side, Far and wide, All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades' Colonnades, All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts,—and then, All the men! When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand, Either hand On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace Of my face, Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech Each on each.

In one year they sent a million fighters forth South and North, And they built their gods a brazen pillar high As the sky, Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force— Gold, of course. Oh heart! oh blood that freezes, blood that burns! Earth's returns For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin! Shut them in, With their triumphs and their glories and the rest! Love is best!

Robert Browning [1812-1889]



EARL MERTOUN'S SONG From "The Blot in the 'Scutcheon"

There's a woman like a dewdrop, she's so purer than the purest; And her noble heart's the noblest, yes, and her sure faith's the surest: And her eyes are dark and humid, like the depth on depth of luster Hid i' the harebell, while her tresses, sunnier than the wild-grape cluster, Gush in golden-tinted plenty down her neck's rose-misted marble: Then her voice's music... call it the well's bubbling, the bird's warble! And this woman says, "My days were sunless and my nights were moonless, Parched the pleasant April herbage, and the lark's heart's outbreak tuneless, If you loved me not!" And I who (ah, for words of flame!) adore her, Who am mad to lay my spirit prostrate palpably before her— I may enter at her portal soon, as now her lattice takes me, And by noontide as by midnight make her mine, as hers she makes me!

Robert Browning [1812-1889]



MEETING AT NIGHT

The gray sea and the long black land; And the yellow half-moon large and low; And the startled little waves that leap In fiery ringlets from their sleep, As I gain the cove with pushing prow, And quench its speed in the slushy sand.

Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach; Three fields to cross till a farm appears; A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch And blue spirt of a lighted match, And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears, Than the two hearts beating each to each!

Robert Browning [1812-1889]



PARTING AT MORNING

Round the cape of a sudden came the sea, And the sun looked over the mountain's rim: And straight was a path of gold for him, And the need of a world of men for me.

Robert Browning [1812-1889]



THE TURN OF THE ROAD

Soft, gray buds on the willow, Warm, moist winds from the bay, Sea-gulls out on the sandy beach, And a road my eager feet would reach, That leads to the Far-away.

Dust on the wayside flower, The meadow-lark's luring tone Is silent now, from the grasses tipped With dew at the dawn, the pearls have slipped— Far have I fared alone.

And then, by the alder thicket The turn of the road—and you! Though the earth lie white in the noonday heat, Or the swift storm follow our hurrying feet What do we care—we two!

Alice Rollit Coe [18—



"MY DELIGHT AND THY DELIGHT"

My delight and thy delight Walking, like two angels white, In the gardens of the night:

My desire and thy desire Twining to a tongue of fire, Leaping live, and laughing higher;

Through the everlasting strife In the mystery of life.

Love, from whom the world begun, Hath the secret of the sun.

Love can tell, and love alone, Whence the million stars were strown, Why each atom knows its own, How, in spite of woe and death, Gay is life, and sweet is breath:

This he taught us, this we knew, Happy in his science true, Hand in hand as we stood 'Neath the shadows of the wood, Heart to heart as we lay In the dawning of the day.

Robert Bridges [1844-1930]



"O, SAW YE THE LASS"

O, saw ye the lass wi' the bonny blue een? Her smile is the sweetest that ever was seen: Her cheek like the rose is, but fresher, I ween; She's the loveliest lassie that trips on the green. The home of my love is below in the valley, Where wild-flowers welcome the wandering bee; But the sweetest of flowers in that spot that is seen Is the maid that I love wi' the bonny blue een.

When night overshadows her cot in the glen, She'll steal out to meet her loved Donald again; And when the moon shines on the valley so green, I'll welcome the lass wi' the bonny blue een. As the dove that has wandered away from his nest Returns to the mate his fond heart loves the best, I'll fly from the world's false and vanishing scene, To my dear one, the lass wi' the bonny blue een.

Richard Ryan [1796-1849]



LOVE AT SEA Imitated From Theophile Gautier

We are in love's land to-day; Where shall we go? Love, shall we start or stay, Or sail or row? There's many a wind and way, And never a May but May; We are in love's hand to-day; Where shall we go?

Our land-wind is the breath Of sorrows kissed to death And joys that were; Our ballast is a rose; Our way lies where God knows And love knows where. We are in love's hand to-day—

Our seamen are fledged Loves, Our masts are bills of doves, Our decks fine gold; Our ropes are dead maids' hair, Our stores are love-shafts fair And manifold. We are in love's land to-day—

Where shall we land you, sweet? On fields of strange men's feet, Or fields near home? Or where the fire-flowers blow, Or where the flowers of snow Or flowers of foam? We are in love's hand to-day—

Land me, she says, where love Shows but one shaft, one dove, One heart, one hand,— A shore like that, my dear, Lies where no man will steer, No maiden land.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]



MARY BEATON'S SONG From "Chastelard"

Between the sunset and the sea My love laid hands and lips on me; Of sweet came sour, of day came night, Of long desire came brief delight: Ah love, and what thing came of thee Between the sea-downs and the sea?

Between the sea-mark and the sea Joy grew to grief, grief grew to me; Love turned to tears, and tears to fire, And dead delight to new desire; Love's talk, love's touch there seemed to be Between the sea-sand and the sea.

Between the sundown and the sea Love watched one hour of love with me; Then down the all-golden water-ways His feet flew after yesterday's; I saw them come and saw them flee Between the sea-foam and the sea.

Between the sea-strand and the sea Love fell on sleep, sleep fell on me; The first star saw twain turn to one Between the moonrise and the sun; The next, that saw not love, saw me Between the sea-banks and the sea.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]



PLIGHTED

Mine to the core of the heart, my beauty! Mine, all mine, and for love, not duty: Love given willingly, full and free, Love for love's sake,—as mine to thee. Duty's a slave that keeps the keys, But Love, the master, goes in and out Of his goodly chambers with song and shout, Just as he please,—just as he please.

Mine, from the dear head's crown, brown-golden, To the silken foot that's scarce beholden; Give to a few friends hand or smile, Like a generous lady, now and awhile, But the sanctuary heart, that none dare win, Keep holiest of holiest evermore; The crowd in the aisles may watch the door, The high-priest only enters in.

Mine, my own, without doubts or terrors, With all thy goodnesses, all thy errors, Unto me and to me alone revealed, "A spring shut up, a fountain sealed." Many may praise thee,—praise mine as thine, Many may love thee,—I'll love them too; But thy heart of hearts, pure, faithful, and true, Must be mine, mine wholly, and only mine.

Mine!—God, I thank Thee that Thou hast given Something all mine on this side heaven: Something as much myself to be As this my soul which I lift to Thee: Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone, Life of my life, whom Thou dost make Two to the world for the world's work's sake,— But each unto each, as in Thy sight, one.

Dinah Maria Mulock Craik [1826-1887]



A WOMAN'S QUESTION

Before I trust my fate to thee, Or place my hand in thine, Before I let thy future give Color and form to mine, Before I peril all for thee, question thy soul to-night for me.

I break all slighter bonds, nor feel A shadow of regret: Is there one link within the past That holds thy spirit yet? Or is thy faith as clear and free as that which I can pledge to thee?

Does there within thy dimmest dreams A possible future shine, Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe, Untouched, unshared by mine? If so, at any pain or cost, O, tell me before all is lost.

Look deeper still. If thou canst feel, Within thy inmost soul, That thou hast kept a portion back, While I have staked the whole, Let no false pity spare the blow, but in true mercy tell me so.

Is there within thy heart a need That mine cannot fulfil? One chord that any other hand Could better wake or still? Speak now—lest at some future day my whole life wither and decay.

Lives there within thy nature hid The demon-spirit change, Shedding a passing glory still On all things new and strange? It may not be thy fault alone,—but shield my heart against thy own.

Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day And answer to my claim, That Fate, and that to-day's mistake— Not thou—had been to blame? Some soothe their conscience thus; but thou wilt surely warn and save me now.

Nay, answer not,—I dare not hear, The words would come too late; Yet I would spare thee all remorse, So, comfort thee, my Fate,— Whatever on my heart may fall—remember, I would risk it all!

Adelaide Anne Procter [1825-1864]



"DINNA ASK ME"

O, dinna ask me gin I lo'e ye: Troth, I daurna tell! Dinna ask me gin I lo'e ye,- Ask it o' yoursel'.

O, dinna look sae sair at me, For weel ye ken me true; O, gin ye look sae sair at me, I daurna look at you.

When ye gang to yon braw, braw town, And bonnier lassies see, O, dinna, Jamie, look at them, Lest ye should mind na me.

For I could never bide the lass That ye'd lo'e mair than me; And O, I'm sure my heart wad brak, Gin ye'd prove fause to me!

John Dunlop [1755-1820]



A SONG

Sing me a sweet, low song of night Before the moon is risen, A song that tells of the stars' delight Escaped from day's bright prison, A song that croons with the cricket's voice, That sleeps with the shadowed trees, A song that shall bid my heart rejoice At its tender mysteries!

And then when the song is ended, love, Bend down your head unto me, Whisper the word that was born above Ere the moon had swayed the sea; Ere the oldest star began to shine, Or the farthest sun to burn,— The oldest of words, O heart of mine, Yet newest, and sweet to learn.

Hildegarde Hawthorne [18—



THE REASON

Oh, hark the pulses of the night, The crickets hidden in the field, That beat out music of delight Till summoned dawn stands half revealed!

Oh, mark above the bearded corn And the green wheat and bending rye, Tuned to the earth, and calling morn, The stars vibrating in the sky!

And know, divided soul of me, Here in the meadow, sweet in speech, This perfect night could never be Were we not mated each to each.

James Oppenheim [1882-1932]



"MY OWN CAILIN DONN"

The blush is on the flower, and the bloom is on the tree, And the bonnie, bonnie sweet birds are caroling their glee; And the dews upon the grass are made diamonds by the sun, All to deck a path of glory for my own Cailin Donn!

Oh fair she is! Oh rare she is! Oh dearer still to me, More welcome than the green leaf to winter-stricken tree! More welcome than the blossom to the weary, dusty bee, Is the coming of my true love—my own Cailin Donn!

O sycamore! O sycamore! wave, wave your banners green! Let all your pennons flutter, O beech! before my queen! Ye fleet and honeyed breezes, to kiss her hand ye run; But my heart has passed before ye to my own Cailin Donn.

Ring out, ring out, O linden, your merry leafy bells! Unveil your brilliant torches, O chestnut! to the dells; Strew, strew the glade with splendor, for morn it cometh on! Oh, the morn of all delight to me—my own Cailin Donn!

She is coming, where we parted, where she wanders every day; There's a gay surprise before her who thinks me far away; Oh, like hearing bugles triumph when the fight of freedom's won, Is the joy around your footsteps, my own Cailin Donn!

George Sigerson [1839-1925]



NOCTURNE

All the earth a hush of white, White with moonlight all the skies; Wonder of a winter night— And... your eyes.

Hues no palette dares to claim Where the spoils of sunken ships Leap to light in singing flame— And... your lips.

Darkness as the shadows creep Where the embers sigh to rest; Silence of a world asleep— And... your breast.

Amelia Josephine Burr [1878-



SURRENDER

As I look back upon your first embrace I understand why from your sudden touch Angered I sprang, and struck you in the face. You asked at once too little and too much. But now that of my spirit you require Love's very soul that unto death endures, Crown as you will the cup of your desire— I am all yours.

Amelia Josephine Burr [1878-



"BY YON BURN SIDE"

We'll meet beside the dusky glen, on yon burn side, Where the bushes form a cosie den, on yon burn side; Though the broomy knowes be green, And there we may be seen, Yet we'll meet—we'll meet at e'en, down by yon burn side.

I'll lead thee to the birken bower, on yon burn side, Sae sweetly wove wi' woodbine flower, on yon burn side; There the busy prying eye, Ne'er disturbs the lover's joy, While in ither's arms they lie, down by yon burn side.

Awa', ye rude, unfeeling crew, frae yon burn side, Those fairy scenes are no for you, by yon burn side; There fancy smooths her theme, By the sweetly murmuring stream, And the rock-lodged echoes skim, down by yon burn side.

Now the plantin' taps are tinged wi' goud, on yon burn side, And gloamin' draws her foggy shroud o'er yon burn side; Far frae the noisy scene, I'll through the fields alane, There we'll meet, my ain dear Jean, down by yon burn side.

Robert Tannahill [1774-1810]



A PASTORAL

Flower of the medlar, Crimson of the quince, I saw her at the blossom-time, And loved her ever since! She swept the draughty pleasance, The blooms had left the trees, The whilst the birds sang canticles, In cherry symphonies.

Whiteness of the white rose, Redness of the red, She went to cut the blush-rose buds To tie at the altar-head; And some she laid in her bosom, And some around her brows, And, as she passed, the lily-heads All becked and made their bows.

Scarlet of the poppy, Yellow of the corn, The men were at the garnering, A-shouting in the morn; I chased her to a pippin-tree,— The waking birds all whist,— And oh! it was the sweetest kiss That I have ever kissed.

Marjorie, mint, and violets A-drying round us set, 'Twas all done in the faience-room A-spicing marmalet; On one tile was a satyr, On one a nymph at bay, Methinks the birds will scarce be home To wake our wedding-day!

Theophile Marzials [1850-



"WHEN DEATH TO EITHER SHALL COME"

When Death to either shall come,— I pray it be first to me,— Be happy as ever at home, If so, as I wish, it be.

Possess thy heart, my own; And sing to thy child on thy knee, Or read to thyself alone The songs that I made for thee.

Robert Bridges [1844-1930]



THE RECONCILIATION From "The Princess"

As through the land at eve we went, And plucked the ripened ears, We fell out, my wife and I, O, we fell out, I know not why, And kissed again with tears.

And blessings on the falling out That all the more endears, When we fall out with those we love And kiss again with tears!

For when we came where lies the child We lost in other years, There above the little grave, O, there above the little grave, We kissed again with tears.

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]



SONG

Wait but a little while— The bird will bring A heart in tune for melodies Unto the spring, Till he who's in the cedar there Is moved to trill a song so rare, And pipe her fair.

Wait but a little while— The bud will break; The inner rose will open and glow For summer's sake: Fond bees will lodge within her breast Till she herself is plucked and pressed Where I would rest.

Wait but a little while— The maid will grow Gracious with lips and hands to thee, With breast of snow. To-day Love's mute, but time hath sown A soul in her to match thine own, Though yet ungrown.

Norman Gale [1862-



CONTENT

Though singing but the shy and sweet Untrod by multitudes of feet, Songs bounded by the brook and wheat, I have not failed in this, The only lure my woodland note, To win all England's whitest throat! O bards in gold and fire who wrote, Be yours all other bliss!

Norman Gale [1862-



CHE SARA SARA

Preach wisdom unto him who understands! When there's such lovely longing in thine eyes, And such a pulse in thy small clinging hands, What is the good of being great or wise?

What is the good of beating up the dust On the world's highway, vexed with droughty heat? Oh, I grow fatalist—what must be must, Seeing that thou, beloved, art so sweet!

Victor Plarr [1863-



"BID ADIEU TO GIRLISH DAYS"

Bid adieu, adieu, adieu, Bid adieu to girlish days, Happy Love is come to woo Thee and woo thy girlish ways— The zone that doth become thee fair, The snood upon thy yellow hair.

When thou hast heard his name upon The bugles of the cherubim, Begin thou softly to unzone Thy girlish bosom unto him, And softly to undo the snood That is the sign of maidenhood.

James Joyce [1882-



TO F. C.

Fast falls the snow, O lady mine, Sprinkling the lawn with crystals fine, But by the gods we won't repine While we're together, We'll chat and rhyme, and kiss and dine, Defying weather.

So stir the fire and pour the wine, And let those sea-green eyes divine Pour their love-madness into mine: I don't care whether 'Tis snow or sun or rain or shine If we're together.

Mortimer Collins [1827-1876]



SPRING PASSION

Blue sky, green fields, and lazy yellow sun! Why should I hunger for the burning South, Where beauty needs no travail to be won, Now I may kiss her pure impassioned mouth?

Winds rippling with the rich delight of spring! Why should I yearn for myriad-colored skies, Lit by auroral suns, when I may sing The flame and rapture of her starry eyes?

Oh, song of birds, and flowers fair to see! Why should I thirst for far-off Eden-isles, When I may hear her discourse melody, And bask, a dreamer, in her dreamy smiles?

Joel Elias Spingarn [1875-



ADVICE TO A LOVER

Oh, if you love her, Show her the best of you; So will you move her To bear with the rest of you. Coldness and jealousy Cannot but seem to her Signs that a tempest lurks Where was sunbeam to her. Patience, and tenderness Still will awake in her Hopes of new sunshine, Though the storm break for her; Love, she will know, for her, Like the blue firmament, Under the tempest lies Gentle and permanent. Nor will she ever Gentleness find the less When the storm overblown Leaveth clear kindliness. Deal with her tenderly, Skylike above her, Smile on her waywardness, Oh, if you love her!

S. Charles Jellicoe [18 —



"YES"

They stood above the world, In a world apart; And she dropped her happy eyes, And stilled the throbbing pulses Of her happy heart. And the moonlight fell above her, Her secret to discover; And the moonbeams kissed her hair, As though no human lovers Had laid his kisses there.

"Look up, brown eyes," he said, "And answer mine; Lift up those silken fringes That hide a happy light Almost divine." The jealous moonlight drifted To the finger half-uplifted, Where shone the opal ring— Where the colors danced and shifted On the pretty, changeful thing.

Just the old, old story Of light and shade, Love like the opal tender, Like it may be to vary— May be to fade. Just the old tender story, Just a glimpse of morning glory In an earthly Paradise, With shadowy reflections In a pair of sweet brown eyes.

Brown eyes a man might well Be proud to win! Open to hold his image, Shut under silken lashes, Only to shut him in. O glad eyes, look together, For life's dark, stormy weather Grows to a fairer thing When young eyes look upon it Through a slender wedding ring.

Richard Doddridge Blackmore [1825-1900]



LOVE

All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame.

Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o'er again that happy hour, When midway on the mount I lay, Beside the ruined tower.

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, Had blended with the lights of eve; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve!

She leaned against the armed man, The statue of the armed Knight; She stood and listened to my lay, Amid the lingering light.

Few sorrows hath she of her own, My hope! my joy! my Genevieve! She loves me best whene'er I sing The songs that make her grieve.

I played a soft and doleful air; I sang an old and moving story— An old rude song, that suited well That ruin wild and hoary.

She listened with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes, and modest grace; For well she knew I could not choose But gaze upon her face.

I told her of the Knight that wore Upon his shield a burning brand; And that for ten long years he wooed The Lady of the Land.

I told her how he pined: and ah! The deep, the low, the pleading tone With which I sang another's love, Interpreted my own.

She listened with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes, and modest grace; And she forgave me, that I gazed Too fondly on her face!

But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, And that he crossed the mountain-woods, Nor rested day nor night;

That sometimes from the savage den, And sometimes from the darksome shade, And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny glade—

There came and looked him in the face An angel beautiful and bright; And that he knew it was a Fiend, This miserable Knight!

And that, unknowing what he did, He leaped amid a murderous band, And saved from outrage worse than death The Lady of the Land;—

And how she wept and clasped his knees; And how she tended him in vain— And ever strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain;—

And that she nursed him in a cave; And how his madness went away, When on the yellow forest-leaves A dying man he lay;—

His dying words—but when I reached That tenderest strain of all the ditty, My faltering voice and pausing harp Disturbed her soul with pity!

All impulses of soul and sense Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve; The music and the doleful tale, The rich and balmy eve;

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, An undistinguishable throng, And gentle wishes long subdued, Subdued and cherished long!

She wept with pity and delight, She blushed with love and virgin-shame; And like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name.

Her bosom heaved—she stepped aside, As conscious of my look she stepped— Then suddenly, with timorous eye She fled to me and wept.

She half enclosed me with her arms, She pressed me with a meek embrace; And bending back her head, looked up, And gazed upon my face.

'Twas partly love, and partly fear, And partly 'twas a bashful art, That I might rather feel, than see, The swelling of her heart.

I calmed her fears, and she was calm, And told her love with virgin pride; And so I won my Genevieve, My bright and beauteous Bride.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge [1772-1834]



NESTED On The Sussex Downs

"Lured," little one? Nay, you've but heard Love o'er your wild downs roaming; Not lured, my bird, my light, swift bird, But homing—homing.

"Caught," does she feel? Nay, no net stirred To catch the heart fore-fated; Not caught, my bird, my bright, wild bird, But mated—mated.

And "caged," she fears? Nay, never that word Of where your brown head rested; Not caged, my bird, my shy, sweet bird, But nested—nested!

Habberton Lulham [18—



THE LETTERS

Still on the tower stood the vane, A black yew gloomed the stagnant air; I peered athwart the chancel pane, And saw the altar cold and bare. A clog of lead was round my feet, A band of pain across my brow; "Cold altar, heaven and earth shall meet Before you hear my marriage vow."

I turned and hummed a bitter song That mocked the wholesome human heart, And then we met in wrath and wrong, We met, but only meant to part. Full cold my greeting was and dry; She faintly smiled, she hardly moved; I saw, with half-unconscious eye, She wore the colors I approved.

She took the little ivory chest, With half a sigh she turned the key, Then raised her head with lips compressed, And gave my letters back to me; And gave the trinkets and the rings, My gifts, when gifts of mine could please. As looks a father on the things Of his dead son, I looked on these.

She told me all her friends had said; I raged against the public liar. She talked as if her love were dead; But in my words were seeds of fire. "No more of love, your sex is known; I never will be twice deceived. Henceforth I trust the man alone; The woman cannot be believed.

"Through slander, meanest spawn of hell,— And woman's slander is the worst,— And you, whom once I loved so well, Through you my life will be accursed." I spoke with heart and heat and force, I shook her breast with vague alarms— Like torrents from a mountain source We rushed into each other's arms.

We parted; sweetly gleamed the stars, And sweet the vapor-braided blue; Low breezes fanned the belfry bars, As homeward by the church I drew. The very graves appeared to smile, So fresh they rose in shadowed swells; "Dark porch," I said, "and silent aisle, There comes a sound of marriage bells."

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]



PROTHALAMION

Calm was the day, and through the trembling air Sweet-breathing Zephyrus did softly play A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay Hot Titan's beams, which then did glister fair; When I (whom sullen care, Through discontent of my long fruitless stay In Prince's Court, and expectation vain Of idle hopes, which still do fly away, Like empty shadows, did afflict my brain), Walked forth to ease my pain Along the shore of silver streaming Thames; Whose rutty bank, the which his river hems, Was painted all with variable flowers, And all the meads adorned with dainty gems, Fit to deck maidens' bowers, And crown their paramours Against the bridal day, which is not long: Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

There, in a meadow, by the river's side, A flock of nymphs I chanced to espy, All lovely daughters of the flood thereby, With goodly greenish locks, all loose untied, As each had been a bride: And each one had a little wicker basket, Made of fine twigs, entrailed curiously, In which they gathered flowers to fill their flasket, And, with fine fingers, cropped full feateously The tender stalks on high. Of every sort, which in that meadow grew, They gathered some; the violet, pallid blue, The little daisy, that at evening closes, The virgin lily, and the primrose true, With store of vermeil roses, To deck their bridegroom's posies Against the bridal day, which was not long: Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

With that I saw two swans of goodly hue Come softly swimming down along the Lee; Two fairer birds I yet did never see; The snow, which doth the top of Pindus strew, Did never whiter shew, Nor Jove himself, when he a swan would be For love of Leda, whiter did appear; Yet Leda was, they say, as white as he, Yet not so white as these, nor nothing near; So purely white they were, That even the gentle stream, the which them bare, Seemed foul to them, and bade his billows spare To wet their silken feathers, lest they might Soil their fair plumes with water not so fair, And mar their beauties bright, That shone as heaven's light, Against their bridal day, which was not long: Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

Eftsoons the nymphs, which now had flowers their fill, Ran all in haste to see that silver brood, As they came floating on the crystal flood; Whom when they saw, they stood amazed still, Their wondering eyes to fill; Them seemed they never saw a sight so fair Of fowls so lovely, that they sure did deem Them heavenly born, or to be that same pair Which through the sky draw Venus' silver team; For sure they did not seem To be begot of any earthly seed, But rather angels, or of angels' breed; Yet were they bred of summer's heat, they say, In sweetest season, when each flower and weed The earth did fresh array; So fresh they seemed as day, Even as their bridal day, which was not long: Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

Then forth they all out of their baskets drew Great store of flowers, the honor of the field, That to the sense did fragrant odors yield, All which upon those goodly birds they threw And all the waves did strew, That like old Peneus' waters they did seem, When down along by pleasant Tempe's shore, Scattered with flowers, through Thessaly they stream, That they appear, through lilies' plenteous store, Like a bride's chamber floor: Two of those nymphs, meanwhile, two garlands bound Of freshest flowers which in that mead they found, The which presenting all in trim array, Their snowy foreheads therewithal they crowned, Whilst one did sing this lay, Prepared against that day, Against their bridal day, which was not long: Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

"Ye gentle birds! the world's fair ornament, And heaven's glory whom this happy hour Doth lead unto your lover's blissful bower, Joy may you have, and gentle hearts' content Of your love's couplement; And let fair Venus, that is queen of love, With her heart-quelling son upon you smile, Whose smile, they say, hath virtue to remove All love's dislike, and friendship's faulty guile For ever to assoil; Let endless peace your steadfast hearts accord, And blessed plenty wait upon your board; And let your bed with pleasures chaste abound, That fruitful issue may to you afford, Which may your foes confound, And make your joys redound Upon your bridal day, which is not long": Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

So ended she: and all the rest around To her redoubled that her undersong, Which said their bridal day should not be long: And gentle Echo from the neighbor-ground Their accents did resound. So forth those joyous birds did pass along, Adown the Lee, that to them murmured low, As he would speak, but that he lacked a tongue, Yet did by signs his glad affection show, Making his stream run slow. And all the fowl which in his flood did dwell 'Gan flock about these twain, that did excel The rest, so far as Cynthia doth shend The lesser stars. So they, enranged well, Did on those two attend, And their best service lend Against their wedding day, which was not long: Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

At length they all to merry London came, To merry London, my most kindly nurse, That to me gave this life's first native source; Though from another place I take my name, An house of ancient fame: There when they came, whereas those bricky towers The which on Thames' broad, aged back do ride, Where now the studious lawyers have their bowers, There whilom wont the Templar Knights to bide, Till they decayed through pride: Next whereunto there stands a stately place, Where oft I gained gifts and goodly grace Of that great lord, which therein wont to dwell, Whose want too well now feels my friendless case; But ah! here fits not well Old woes, but joys, to tell Against the bridal day, which is not long: Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

Yet therein now doth lodge a noble peer, Great England's glory, and the world's wide wonder, Whose dreadful name late through all Spain did thunder, And Hercules' two pillars standing near Did make to quake and fear: Fair branch of honor, flower of chivalry! That fillest England with thy triumph's fame, Joy have thou of thy noble victory, And endless happiness of thine own name, That promiseth the same; That through thy prowess, and victorious arms, Thy country may be freed from foreign harms; And great Elisa's glorious name may ring Through all the world, filled with thy wide alarms, Which some brave muse may sing To ages following, Upon the bridal day, which is not long: Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

From those high towers this noble lord issuing, Like radiant Hesper, when his golden hair In the ocean billows he hath bathed fair, Descended to the river's open viewing, With a great train ensuing. Above the rest were goodly to be seen Two gentle knights of lovely face and feature Beseeming well the bower of any queen, With gifts of wit and ornaments of nature, Fit for so goodly stature, That like the twins of Jove they seemed in sight, Which deck the baldrick of the heavens bright; They two, forth pacing to the river's side, Received those two fair brides, their love's delight; Which, at the appointed tide, Each one did make his bride Against their bridal day, which is not long: Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

Edmund Spenser [1552?-1599]



EPITHALAMION

Ye learned sisters, which have oftentimes Been to me aiding, others to adorn, Whom ye thought worthy of your graceful rhymes, That even the greatest did not greatly scorn To hear their names sung in your simple lays, But joyed in their praise; And when ye list your own mishaps to mourn, Which death, or love, or fortune's wreck did raise, Your string could soon to sadder tenor turn, And teach the woods and waters to lament Your doleful dreariment: Now lay those sorrowful complaints aside; And, having all your heads with garlands crowned, Help me mine own love's praises to resound; Nor let the same of any be envide: So Orpheus did for his own bride! So I unto myself alone will sing; The woods shall to me answer, and my echo ring.

Early, before the world's light-giving lamp His golden beam upon the hills doth spread, Having dispersed the night's uncheerful damp, Do ye awake; and, with fresh lusty-hed, Go to the bower of my beloved love, My truest turtle dove; Bid her awake; for Hymen is awake, And long since ready forth his mask to move, With his bright Tead that flames with many a flake, And many a bachelor to wait on him, In their fresh garments trim. Bid her awake therefore, and soon her dight, For lo! the wished day is come at last, That shall, for all the pains and sorrows past, Pay to her usury of long delight: And, whilst she doth her dight, Do ye to her of joy and solace sing, That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring.

Bring with you all the Nymphs that you can hear, Both of the rivers and the forests green, And of the sea that neighbors to her near, All with gay garlands goodly well beseen. And let them also with them bring in hand Another gay garland, For my fair love, of lilies and of roses, Bound truelove wise with a blue silk riband; And let them make great store of bridal posies, And let them eke bring store of other flowers, To deck the bridal bowers. And let the ground whereas her foot shall tread, For fear the stones her tender foot should wrong, Be strewed with fragrant flowers all along, And diapered like the discolored mead; Which done, do at her chamber door await, For she will waken straight; The whiles do ye this song unto her sing, The woods shall to you answer, and your echo ring.

Ye Nymphs of Mulla, which with careful heed The silver scaly trouts do tend full well, And greedy pikes which use therein to feed (Those trouts and pikes all others do excel); And ye likewise, which keep the rushy lake, Where none do fishes take; Bind up the locks the which hang scattered light, And in his waters, which your mirror make, Behold your faces as the crystal bright, That when you come whereas my love doth lie, No blemish she may spy. And eke, ye lightfoot maids, which keep the deer, That on the hoary mountain used to tower; And the wild wolves, which seek them to devour, With your steel darts do chase from coming near; Be also present here, To help to deck her, and to help to sing, That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring.

Wake, now, my love, awake! for it is time; The rosy mom long since left Tithon's bed, All ready to her silver coach to climb; And Phoebus 'gins to show his glorious head. Hark, how the cheerful birds do chant their lays And carol of love's praise. The merry lark her matins sings aloft; The thrush replies; the mavis descant plays; The ouzel shrills; the ruddock warbles soft; So goodly all agree, with sweet consent, To this day's merriment. Ah! my dear love, why do ye sleep thus long, When meeter were that ye should now awake, To await the coming of your joyous mate, And hearken to the birds' love-learned song, The dewy leaves among! For they of joy and pleasance to you sing, That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring.

My love is now awake out of her dreams, And her fair eyes, like stars that dimmed were With darksome cloud, now show their goodly beams More bright than Hesperus his head doth rear. Come now, ye damsels, daughters of delight, Help quickly her to dight: But first come, ye fair hours, which were begot In Jove's sweet paradise of Day and Night; Which do the seasons of the year allot, And all that ever in this world is fair, Do make and still repair: And ye three handmaids of the Cyprian queen, The which do still adorn her beauty's pride, Help to adorn my beautifulest bride; And as ye her array, still throw between Some graces to be seen, And, as ye use to Venus, to her sing, The whiles the woods shall answer, and your echo ring.

Now is my love all ready forth to come: Let all the virgins therefore well await: And ye fresh boys, that tend upon her groom, Prepare yourselves; for he is coming straight; Set all your things in seemly good array, Fit for so joyful day: The joyfulest day that ever sun did see. Fair Sun! show forth thy favorable ray, And let thy life-full heat not fervent be, For fear of burning her sunshiny face, Her beauty to disgrace. O fairest Phoebus! father of the Muse! If ever I did honor thee aright, Or sing the thing that might thy mind delight, Do not thy servant's simple boon refuse; But let this day, let this one day, be mine; Let all the rest be thine. Then I thy sovereign praises loud will sing, That all the woods shall answer, and their echo ring.

Hark! how the Minstrels 'gin to shrill aloud Their merry music that resounds from far, The pipe, the tabor, and the trembling croud, That well agree withouten breach or jar. But, most of all, the Damsels do delight When they their timbrels smite, And thereunto do dance and carol sweet, That all the senses they do ravish quite; The whiles the boys run up and down the street, Crying aloud with strong confused noise, As if it were one voice, Hymen, io Hymen, Hymen, they do shout; That even to the heavens their shouting shrill Doth reach, and all the firmament doth fill; To which the people standing all about, As in approvance, do thereto applaud, And loud advance her laud; And evermore they Hymen, Hymen sing, That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring.

Lo! where she comes along with portly pace, Like Phoebe, from her chamber of the East, Arising forth to run her mighty race, Clad all in white, that seems a virgin best. So well it her beseems, that ye would ween Some angel she had been. Her long loose yellow locks like golden wire, Sprinkled with pearl, and pearling flowers atween, Do like a golden mantle her attire; And, being crowned with a garland green, Seem like some maiden queen. Her modest eyes, abashed to behold So many gazers as on her do stare, Upon the lowly ground affixed are; Nor dare lift up her countenance too bold, But blush to hear her praises sung so loud, So far from being proud. Nathless do ye still loud her praises sing, That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring.

Tell me, ye merchants' daughters, did ye see So fair a creature in your town before; So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as she, Adorned with beauty's grace and virtue's store? Her goodly eyes like sapphires shining bright, Her forehead ivory white, Her cheeks like apples which the sun hath ruddied, Her lips like cherries charming men to bite, Her breast like to a bowl of cream uncrudded, Her paps like lilies budded, Her snowy neck like to a marble tower; And all her body like a palace fair, Ascending up, with many a stately stair, To honor's seat and chastity's sweet bower. Why stand ye still, ye virgins, in amaze, Upon her so to gaze, Whiles ye forget your former lay to sing, To which the woods did answer, and your echo ring?

But if ye saw that which no eyes can see, The inward beauty of her lively spright, Garnished with heavenly gifts of high degree, Much more then would ye wonder at that sight, And stand astonished like to those which read Medusa's mazeful head. There dwells sweet love, and constant chastity, Unspotted faith, and comely womanhood, Regard of honor, and mild modesty; There virtue reigns as queen in royal throne, And giveth laws alone, The which the base affections do obey, And yield their services unto her will; Nor thought of thing uncomely ever may Thereto approach to tempt her mind to ill. Had ye once seen these her celestial treasures, And unrevealed pleasures, Then would ye wonder, and her praises sing, That all the woods should answer, and your echo ring.

Open the temple gates unto my love, Open them wide that she may enter in, And all the posts adorn as doth behove, And all the pillars deck with garlands trim, For to receive this Saint with honor due, That cometh in to you. With trembling steps, and humble reverence, She cometh in, before the Almighty's view; Of her ye virgins learn obedience, When so ye come into those holy places, To humble your proud faces: Bring her up to the high altar, that she may The sacred ceremonies there partake, The which do endless matrimony make; And let the roaring organs loudly play The praises of the Lord in lively notes; The whiles, with hollow throats, The Choristers the joyous Anthems sing, That all the woods may answer, and their echo ring.

Behold, whiles she before the altar stands, Hearing the holy priest that to her speaks, And blesseth her with his two happy hands, How the red roses flush up in her cheeks, And the pure snow, with goodly vermill stain Like crimson dyed in grain: That even the Angels, which continually About the sacred altar do remain, Forget their service and about her fly, Oft peeping in her face, that seems more fair, The more they on it stare. But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground, Are governed with goodly modesty, That suffers not one look to glance awry, Which may let in a little thought unsound. Why blush ye, love, to give to me your hand, The pledge of all our band? Sing, ye sweet Angels, Alleluja sing, That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring.

Now all is done: bring home the bride again; Bring home the triumph of our victory: Bring home with you the glory of her gain; With joyance bring her and with jollity. Never had man more joyful day than this, Whom heaven would heap with bliss. Make feast therefore now all this live-long day; This day for ever to me holy is. Pour out the wine without restraint or stay, Pour not by cups, but by the belly full, Pour out to all that will, And sprinkle all the posts and walls with wine, That they may sweat, and drunken be withal. Crown ye God Bacchus with a coronal, And Hymen also crown with wreaths of vine; And let the Graces dance unto the rest, For they can do it best: The whiles the maidens do their carol sing, To which the woods shall answer, and their echo ring.

Ring ye the bells, ye young men of the town, And leave your wonted labors for this day: This day is holy; do ye write it down, That ye for ever it remember may. This day the sun is in his chiefest height, With Barnaby the bright, From whence declining daily by degrees, He somewhat loseth of his heat and light, When once the Crab behind his back he sees. But for this time it ill ordained was, To choose the longest day in all the year, And shortest night, when longest fitter were: Yet never day so long, but late would pass. Ring ye the bells, to make it wear away, And bonfires make all day; And dance about them, and about them sing, That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring.

Ah! when will this long weary day have end, And lend me leave to come unto my love? How slowly do the hours their numbers spend? How slowly does sad Time his feathers move? Haste thee, O fairest Planet, to thy home, Within the Western foam: Thy tired steeds long since have need of rest. Long though it be, at last I see it gloom, And the bright evening-star with golden crest Appear out of the East. Fair child of beauty! glorious lamp of love! That all the host of heaven in ranks dost lead, And guidest lovers through the night's sad dread, How cheerfully thou lookest from above, And seems to laugh atween thy twinkling light, As joying in the sight Of these glad many, which for joy do sing, That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring!

Now, cease, ye damsels, your delights fore-past; Enough is it that all the day was yours: Now day is done, and night is nighing fast, Now bring the bride into the bridal bowers. The night is come, now soon her disarray, And in her bed her lay; Lay her in lilies and in violets, And silken curtains over her display, And odored sheets, and Arras coverlets. Behold how goodly my fair love does lie, In proud humility! Like unto Maia, when as Jove her took In Tempe, lying on the flowery grass, 'Twixt sleep and wake, after she weary was, With bathing in the Acidalian brook. Now it is night, ye damsels may be gone, And leave my love alone, And leave likewise your former lay to sing: The woods no more shall answer, nor your echo ring.

Now welcome, night! thou night so long expected, That long day's labor dost at last defray, And all my cares, which cruel Love collected, Hast summed in one, and cancelled for aye: Spread thy broad wing over my love and me, That no man may us see; And in thy sable mantle us enwrap, From fear of peril and foul horror free. Let no false treason seek us to entrap, Nor any dread disquiet once annoy The safety of our joy; But let the night be calm, and quietsome, Without tempestuous storms or sad affray: Like as when Jove with fair Alcmena lay, When he begot the great Tirynthian groom: Or like as when he with thyself did lie And begot Majesty. And let the maids and young men cease to sing; Nor let the woods them answer, nor their echo ring.

Let no lamenting cries, nor doleful tears, Be heard all night within, nor yet without: Nor let false whispers, breeding hidden fears, Break gentle sleep with misconceived doubt. Let no deluding dreams, nor dreadful sights, Make sudden sad affrights; Nor let house-fires, nor lightning's helpless harms, Nor let the Puck, nor other evil sprites, Nor let mischievous witches with their charms, Nor let hobgoblins, names whose sense we see not, Fray us with things that be not: Let not the screech-owl nor the stork be heard, Nor the night raven, that still deadly yells; Nor damned ghosts, called up with mighty spells, Nor grizzly vultures, make us once afraid: Nor let the unpleasant choir of frogs still croaking Make us to wish their choking. Let none of these their dreary accents sing; Nor let the woods them answer, nor their echo ring.

But let still Silence true night-watches keep, That sacred Peace may in assurance reign, And timely Sleep, when it is time to sleep, May pour his limbs forth on your pleasant plain; The whiles an hundred little winged loves, Like divers-feathered doves, Shall fly and flutter round about your bed, And in the secret dark, that none reproves, Their pretty stealths shall work, and snares shall spread To filch away sweet snatches of delight, Concealed through covert night. Ye sons of Venus, play your sports at will! For greedy pleasure, careless of your toys, Thinks more upon her paradise of joys, Then what ye do, albeit good or ill. All night therefore attend your merry play, For it will soon be day: Now none doth hinder you, that say or sing; Nor will the woods now answer, nor your echo ring.

Who is the same, which at my window peeps? Or whose is that fair face that shines so bright? Is it not Cynthia, she that never sleeps, But walks about high heaven all the night? O! fairest goddess, do thou not envy My love with me to spy: For thou likewise didst love, though now unthought, And for a fleece of wool, which privily The Latmian shepherd once unto thee brought, His pleasures with thee wrought. Therefore to us be favorable now; And since of women's labors thou hast charge, And generation goodly dost enlarge, Incline thy will to effect our wishful vow, And the chaste womb inform with timely seed, That may our comfort breed: Till which we cease our hopeful hap to sing; Nor let the woods us answer, nor our echo ring.

And thou, great Juno! which with awful might The laws of wedlock still dost patronize, And the religion of the faith first plight With sacred rites hast taught to solemnize; And eke for comfort often called art Of women in their smart; Eternally bind thou this lovely band, And all thy blessings unto us impart. And thou, glad Genius! in whose gentle hand The bridal bower and genial bed remain, Without blemish or stain; And the sweet pleasures of their love's delight With secret aid dost succor and supply, Till they bring forth the fruitful progeny; Send us the timely fruit of this same night. And thou, fair Hebe! and thou, Hymen free! Grant that it may so be. Till which we cease your further praise to sing; Nor any woods shall answer, nor your echo ring.

And ye high heavens, the temple of the gods, In which a thousand torches flaming bright Do burn, that to us wretched earthly clods In dreadful darkness lend desired light; And all ye powers which in the same remain, More than we men can feign, Pour out your blessing on us plenteously, And happy influence upon us rain, That-we may raise a large posterity, Which from the earth, which they may long possess With lasting happiness, Up to your haughty palaces may mount; And, for the guerdon of their glorious merit, May heavenly tabernacles there inherit, Of blessed Saints for to increase the count. So let us rest, sweet love, in hope of this, And cease till then our timely joys to sing: The woods no more us answer, nor our echo ring!

Song! made in lieu of many ornaments, With which my love should duly have been decked, Which cutting off through hasty accidents, Ye would not stay your due time to expect, But promised both to recompense; Be unto her a goodly ornament, And for short time an endless monument.

Edmund Spenser [1552?-1599]



THE KISS

Before you kissed me only winds of heaven Had kissed me, and the tenderness of rain— Now you have come, how can I care for kisses Like theirs again?

I sought the sea, she sent her winds to meet me, They surged about me singing of the south— I turned my head away to keep still holy Your kiss upon my mouth.

And swift sweet rains of shining April weather Found not my lips where living kisses are; I bowed my head lest they put out my glory As rain puts out a star.

I am my love's and he is mine forever, Sealed with a seal and safe forevermore— Think you that I could let a beggar enter Where a king stood before?

Sara Teasdale [1884-1933]



MARRIAGE

Going my way of old Contented more or less I dreamt not life could hold Such happiness.

I dreamt not that love's way Could keep the golden height Day after happy day, Night after night.

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson [1878-



THE NEWLY-WEDDED

Now the rite is duly done, Now the word is spoken, And the spell has made us one Which may ne'er be broken; Rest we, dearest, in our home, Roam we o'er the heather: We shall rest, and we shall roam, Shall we not? together.

From this hour the summer rose Sweeter breathes to charm us; From this hour the winter snows Lighter fall to harm us: Fair or foul—on land or sea— Come the wind or weather, Best and worst, whate'er they be, We shall share together.

Death, who friend from friend can part, Brother rend from brother, Shall but link us, heart and heart, Closer to each other: We will call his anger play, Deem his dart a feather, When we meet him on our way Hand in hand together.

Winthrop Mackworth Praed [1802-1839]



"I SAW TWO CLOUDS AT MORNING"

I saw two clouds at morning, Tinged by the rising sun, And in the dawn they floated on, And mingled into one; I thought that morning cloud was blest, It moved so sweetly to the west.

I saw two summer currents Flow smoothly to their meeting, And join their course, with silent force, In peace each other greeting; Calm was their course through banks of green, While dimpling eddies played between.

Such be your gentle motion, Till life's last pulse shall beat; Like summer's beam, and summer's stream, Float on, in joy, to meet A calmer sea, where storms shall cease, A purer sky, where all is peace.

John Gardiner Calkins Brainard [1796-1828]



HOLY MATRIMONY

The voice that breathed o'er Eden, That earliest wedding-day, The primal marriage blessing, It hath not passed away.

Still in the pure espousal Of Christian man and maid, The holy Three are with us, The threefold grace is said.

For dower of blessed children, For love and faith's sweet sake, For high mysterious union, Which naught on earth may break.

Be present, awful Father, To give away this bride, As Eve thou gav'st to Adam Out of his own pierced side:

Be present, Son of Mary, To join their loving hands, As thou didst bind two natures In thine eternal bands:

Be present, Holiest Spirit, To bless them as they kneel, As thou for Christ, the Bridegroom, The heavenly Spouse dost seal.

Oh, spread thy pure wing o'er them, Let no ill power find place, When onward to thine altar The hallowed path they trace,

To cast their crowns before thee In perfect sacrifice, Till to the home of gladness With Christ's own Bride they rise. Amen.

John Keble [1792-1866]



THE BRIDE

Beat on the Tom-toms, and scatter the flowers, Jasmine, hibiscus, vermilion and white, This is the day, and the Hour of Hours, Bring forth the Bride for her Lover's delight. Maidens no more as a maiden shall claim her, Near, in his Mystery, draweth Desire. Who, if she waver a moment, shall blame her? She is a flower, and love is a fire.

Give her the anklets, the ring, and the necklace, Darken her eyelids with delicate art, Heighten the beauty, so youthful and fleckless, By the Gods favored, oh, Bridegroom, thou art! Twine in thy fingers her fingers so slender, Circle together the Mystical Fire, Bridegroom,—a whisper,—be gentle and tender, Choti Tinchaurya knows not desire.