Bring forth the silks and the veil that shall cover Beauty, till yesterday careless and wild; Red are her lips for the kiss of a lover, Ripe are her breasts for the lips of a child. Center and Shrine of Mysterious Power, Chalice of Pleasure and Rose of Delight, Shyly aware of the swift-coming hour, Waiting the shade and the silence of night.

Still must the Bridegroom his longing dissemble, Longing to loosen the silk-woven cord, Ah, how his fingers will flutter and tremble, Fingers well skilled with the bridle and sword. Thine is his valor, oh Bride, and his beauty, Thine to possess and re-issue again, Such is thy tender and passionate duty, Licit thy pleasure and honored thy pain.

Choti Tinchaurya, lovely and tender, Still all unbroken to sorrow and strife, Come to the Bridegroom who, silk-clad and slender, Brings thee the Honor and Burden of Life. Bidding farewell to thy light-hearted playtime, Worship thy Lover with fear and delight; Art thou not ever, though slave of his daytime, Choti Tinchaurya, queen of his night?

Laurence Hope [1865-1904]



A MARRIAGE CHARM

I set a charm upon your hurrying breath, I set a charm upon your wandering feet, You shall not leave me—not for life, nor death, Not even though you cease to love me, Sweet.

A woman's love nine Angels cannot bind, Nor any rune that wind or water knows, My heart were all as well set on the wind, Or bound, to live or die, upon a rose.

I set a charm upon you, foot and hand, That you and Knowledge, love, may never meet, That you may never chance to understand How strong you are, how weak your lover, Sweet.

I set my charm upon your kindly arm, I set it as a seal upon your breast; That you may never hear another's charm, Nor guess another's gift outruns my best.

I bid your wandering footsteps me to follow, Your thoughts to travel after in my track, I am the sky that waits you, dear gray swallow, No wind of mine shall ever blow you back.

I am your dream, Sweet; so no more of dreaming, Your lips to mine must end this chanted charm, Your heart to mine, 'neath nut-brown tresses streaming, I set my love a seal upon your arm.

Nora Hopper [1871-1906]



"LIKE A LAVEROCK IN THE LIFT"

It's we two, it's we two, it's we two for aye, All the world, and we two, and Heaven be our stay! Like a laverock in the lift, sing, O bonny bride! All the world was Adam once, with Eve by his side.

What's the world, my lass, my love!—what can it do? I am thine, and thou art mine; life is sweet and new. If the world have missed the mark, let it stand by; For we two have gotten leave, and once more we'll try.

Like a laverock in the lift, sing, O bonny bride! It's we two, it's we two, happy side by side. Take a kiss from me, thy man; now the song begins: "All is made afresh for us, and the brave heart wins."

When the darker days come, and no sun will shine, Thou shalt dry my tears, lass, and I'll dry thine. It's we two, it's we two, while the world's away, Sitting by the golden sheaves on our wedding-day.

Jean Ingelow [1820-1897]



MY OWEN

Proud of you, fond of you, clinging so near to you, Light is my heart now I know I am dear to you! Glad is my voice now, so free it may sing for you All the wild love that is burning within for you! Tell me once more, tell it over and over, The tale of that eve which first saw you my lover. Now I need never blush At my heart's hottest gush— The wife of my Owen her heart may discover!

Proud of you, fond of you, having all right in you, Quitting all else through my love and delight in you! Glad is my heart since 'tis beating so nigh to you! Light is my step for it always may fly to you! Clasped in your arms where no sorrow can reach to me, Reading your eyes till new love they shall teach to me. Though wild and weak till now, By that blest marriage vow, More than the wisest know your heart shall preach to me.

Ellen Mary Patrick Downing [1828-1869]



DORIS: A PASTORAL

I sat with Doris, the shepherd maiden; Her crook was laden with wreathed flowers. I sat and wooed her through sunlight wheeling, And shadows stealing for hours and hours.

And she, my Doris, whose lap incloses Wild summer roses of faint perfume, The while I sued her, kept hushed and harkened Till shades had darkened from gloss to gloom.

She touched my shoulder with fearful finger; She said, "We linger, we must not stay; My flock's in danger, my sheep will wander; Behold them yonder, how far they stray!"

I answered bolder, "Nay, let me hear you, And still be near you, and still adore! No wolf nor stranger will touch one yearling— Ah! stay my darling a moment more!"

She whispered, sighing, "There will be sorrow Beyond to-morrow, if I lose to-day; My fold unguarded, my flock unfolded— I shall be scolded and sent away!"

Said I, denying, "If they do miss you, They ought to kiss you when you get home; And well rewarded by friend and neighbor Should be the labor from which you come."

"They might remember," she answered meekly. "That lambs are weakly and sheep are wild; But if they love me it's none so fervent— I am a servant and not a child."

Then each hot ember glowed quick within me, And love did win me to swift reply: "Ah! do but prove me, and none shall bind you, Nor fray nor find you until I die!"

She blushed and started, and stood awaiting, As if debating in dreams divine; But I did brave them—I told her plainly, She doubted vainly, she must be mine.

So we, twin-hearted, from all the valley Did rouse and rally her nibbling ewes; And homeward drove them, we two together, Through blooming heather and gleaming dews.

That simple duty such grace did lend her, My Doris tender, my Doris true, That I her warder did always bless her, And often press her to take her due.

And now in beauty she fills my dwelling With love excelling, and undefiled; And love doth guard her, both fast and fervent, No more a servant, nor yet a child.

Arthur Joseph Munby [1828-1910]



"HE'D NOTHING BUT HIS VIOLIN"

He'd nothing but his violin, I'd nothing but my song, But we were wed when skies were blue And summer days were long; And when we rested by the hedge, The robins came and told How they had dared to woo and win, When early Spring was cold.

We sometimes supped on dew-berries, Or slept among the hay, But oft the farmers' wives at eve Came out to hear us play; The rare old songs, the dear old tunes,— We could not starve for long While my man had his violin, And I my sweet love-song.

The world has aye gone well with us Old man since we were one,— Our homeless wandering down the lanes It long ago was done. But those who wait for gold or gear, For houses or for kine, Till youth's sweet spring grows brown and sere, And love and beauty tine, Will never know the joy of hearts That met without a fear, When you had but your violin And I a song, my dear.

Mary Kyle Dallas [1830-1897]



LOVE'S CALENDAR

That gusty spring, each afternoon By the ivied cot I passed, And noted at that lattice soon Her fair face downward cast; Still in the same place seated there, So diligent, so very fair.

Oft-times I said I knew her not, Yet that way round would go, Until, when evenings lengthened out, And bloomed the may-hedge row, I met her by the wayside well, Whose waters, maybe, broke the spell.

For, leaning on her pail, she prayed, I'd lift it to her head. So did I; but I'm much afraid Some wasteful drops were shed, And that we blushed, as face to face Needs must we stand the shortest space.

Then when the sunset mellowed through The ears of rustling grain, When lattices wide open flew, When ash-leaves fell like rain, As well as I she knew the hour At morn or eve I neared her bower.

And now that snow o'erlays the thatch, Each starlit eve within The door she waits, I raise the latch, And kiss her lifted chin; Nor do I think we've blushed again, For Love hath made but one of twain.

William Bell Scott [1811-1890]



HOME

Two birds within one nest; Two hearts within one breast; Two spirits in one fair, Firm league of love and prayer, Together bound for aye, together blest.

An ear that waits to catch A hand upon the latch; A step that hastens its sweet rest to win; A world of care without, A world of strife shut out, A world of love shut in.

Dora Greenwell [1821-1882]



TWO LOVERS

Two lovers by a moss-grown spring: They leaned soft cheeks together there, Mingled the dark and sunny hair, And heard the wooing thrashes sing. O budding time! O love's blest prime!

Two wedded from the portal stept: The bells made happy carolings, The air was soft as fanning wings, White petals on the pathway slept. O pure-eyed bride! O tender pride!

Two faces o'er a cradle bent: Two hands above the head were locked: These pressed each other while they rocked, Those watched a life that love had sent. O solemn hour! O hidden power!

Two parents by the evening fire: The red light fell about their knees On heads that rose by slow degrees Like buds upon the lily spire. O patient life! O tender strife!

The two still sat together there, The red light shone about their knees; But all the heads by slow degrees Had gone and left that lonely pair. O voyage fast! O vanished past!

The red light shone upon the floor And made the space between them wide; They drew their chairs up side by side, Their pale cheeks joined, and said, "Once more!" O memories! O past that is!

George Eliot [1819-1880]



THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE

"Somewhere," he mused, "its dear enchantments wait, That land, so heavenly sweet; Yet all the paths we follow, soon or late, End in the desert's heat.

"And still it lures us to the eager quest, And calls us day by day"— "But I," she said, her babe upon her breast "But I have found the way."

"Some time," he sighed, "when youth and joy are spent, Our feet the gates may win"— "But I," she smiled, with eyes of deep content, "But I have entered in."

Emily Huntington Miller [1833-1913]



MY AIN WIFE

I wadna gi'e my ain wife For ony wife I see; I wadna gi'e my ain wife For ony wife I see; A bonnier yet I've never seen, A better canna be— I wadna gi'e my ain wife For ony wife I see!

O couthie is my ingle-cheek, An' cheerie is my Jean; I never see her angry look, Nor hear her word on ane. She's gude wi' a' the neebors roun' An' aye gude wi' me— I wadna gi'e my ain wife For ony wife I see.

An' O her looks sae kindlie, They melt my heart outright, When o'er the baby at her breast She hangs wi' fond delight; She looks intill its bonnie face, An' syne looks to me— I wadna gi'e my ain wife For ony wife I see.

Alexander Laing [1787-1857]



THE IRISH WIFE

I would not give my Irish wife For all the dames of the Saxon land; I would not give my Irish wife For the Queen of France's hand; For she to me is dearer Than castles strong, or lands, or life. An outlaw—so I'm near her To love till death my Irish wife.

O what would be this home of mine, A ruined, hermit-haunted place, But for the light that nightly shines Upon its walls from Kathleen's face! What comfort in a mine of gold, What pleasure in a royal life, If the heart within lay dead and cold, If I could not wed my Irish wife?

I knew the law forbade the banns; I knew my king abhorred her race; Who never bent before their clans Must bow before their ladies' grace. Take all my forfeited domain, I cannot wage with kinsmen strife: Take knightly gear and noble name, And I will keep my Irish wife.

My Irish wife has clear blue eyes, My heaven by day, my stars by night; And twin-like truth and fondness lies Within her swelling bosom white. My Irish wife has golden hair, Apollo's harp had once such strings, Apollo's self might pause to hear Her bird-like carol when she sings.

I would not give my Irish wife For all the dames of the Saxon land; I would not give my Irish wife For the Queen of France's hand; For she to me is dearer Than castles strong, or lands, or life: In death I would be near her, And rise beside my Irish wife.

Thomas D'Arcy McGee [1825-1868]



MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING

See is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a bonnie wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine.

I never saw a fairer, I never lo'ed a dearer, And niest my heart I'll wear her, For fear my jewel tine.

She is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a bonnie wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine.

The warld's wrack we share o't, The warsle and the care o't: Wi' her I'll blithely bear it, And think my lot divine.

Robert Burns [1759-1796]



LETTICE

I said to Lettice, our sister Lettice, While drooped and glistened her eyelash brown, "Your man's a poor man, a cold and dour man, There's many a better about our town." She smiled securely—"He loves me purely: A true heart's safe, both in smile or frown; And nothing harms me while his love warms me, Whether the world go up or down."

"He comes of strangers, and they are rangers, And ill to trust, girl, when out of sight: Fremd folk may blame ye, and e'en defame ye, A gown oft handled looks seldom white." She raised serenely her eyelids queenly,— "My innocence is my whitest gown; No harsh tongue grieves me while he believes me, Whether the world go up or down."

"Your man's a frail man, was ne'er a hale man, And sickness knocketh at every door, And death comes making bold hearts cower, breaking—" Our Lettice trembled;—but once, no more. "If death should enter, smite to the center Our poor home palace, all crumbling down, He cannot fright us, nor disunite us, Life bears Love's cross, death brings Love's crown."

Dinah Maria Mulock Craik [1826-1887]



"IF THOU WERT BY MY SIDE, MY LOVE"

If thou wert by my side, my love, How fast would evening fail In green Bengala's palmy grove, Listening the nightingale!

If thou, my love, wert by my side, My babies at my knee, How gayly would our pinnace glide O'er Gunga's mimic sea!

I miss thee at the dawning gray, When, on our deck reclined, In careless ease my limbs I lay And woo the cooler wind.

I miss thee when by Gunga's stream My twilight steps I guide, But most beneath the lamp's pale beam I miss thee from my side.

I spread my books, my pencil try, The lingering noon to cheer, But miss thy kind, approving eye, Thy meek, attentive ear.

But when at morn and eve the star Beholds me on my knee, I feel, though thou art distant far, Thy prayers ascend for me.

Then on! then on! where duty leads, My course be onward still, O'er broad Hindostan's sultry meads, O'er bleak Almorah's hill.

That course nor Delhi's kingly gates, Nor mild Malwah detain; For sweet the bliss us both awaits By yonder western main.

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, Across the dark blue sea; But ne'er were hearts so light and gay As then shall meet in thee!

Reginald Heber [1783-1826]



THE SHEPHERD'S WIFE'S SONG From "The Mourning Garment"

Ah, what is love? It is a pretty thing, As sweet unto a shepherd as a king, And sweeter, too: For kings have cares that wait upon a crown, And cares can make the sweetest love to frown: Ah then, ah then, If country loves such sweet desires do gain, What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

His flocks are folded; he comes home at night As merry as a king in his delight, And merrier, too: For kings bethink them what the state require, Where shepherds, careless, carol by the fire:

He kisseth first, then sits as blithe to eat His cream and curds, as doth a king his meat, And blither, too: For kings have often fears when they do sup, Where shepherds dread no poison in their cup:

To bed he goes, as wanton then, I ween, As is a king in dalliance with a queen; More wanton, too: For kings have many griefs, affects to move, Where shepherds have no greater grief than love:

Upon his couch of straw he sleeps as sound As doth the king upon his bed of down; More sounder, too: For cares cause kings full oft their sleep to spill, Where weary shepherds lie and snort their fill:

Thus, with his wife, he spends the year as blithe As doth the king at every tide or sithe, And blither, too: For kings have wars and broils to take in hand, Where shepherds laugh and love upon the land: Ah then, ah then, Since country loves such sweet desires do gain, What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

Robert Greene [1560?-1592]



"TRUTH DOTH TRUTH DESERVE" From the "Arcadia"

Who doth desire that chaste his wife should be, First be he true, for truth doth truth deserve: Then such be he as she his worth may see, And one man still credit with her preserve. Not toying kind, nor causelessly unkind; Not stirring thoughts, nor yet denying right; Not spying faults, nor in plain errors blind; Never hard hand, nor ever reins too light. As far from want, as far from vain expense (The one doth force, the latter doth entice); Allow good company, but keep from thence All filthy mouths that glory in their vice. This done, thou hast no more, but leave the rest To virtue, fortune, time, and woman's breast.

Philip Sidney [1554-1586]



THE MARRIED LOVER From "The Angel in the House"

Why, having won her, do I woo? Because her spirit's vestal grace Provokes me always to pursue, But, spirit-like, eludes embrace; Because her womanhood is such That, as on court-days subjects kiss The Queen's hand, yet so near a touch Affirms no mean familiarness; Nay, rather marks more fair the height Which can with safety so neglect To dread, as lower ladies might, That grace could meet with disrespect; Thus she with happy favor feeds Allegiance from a love so high That thence no false conceit proceeds Of difference bridged, or state put by; Because, although in act and word As lowly as a wife can be, Her manners, when they call me lord, Remind me 'tis by courtesy; Not with her least consent of will, Which would my proud affection hurt, But by the noble style that still Imputes an unattained desert; Because her gay and lofty brows, When all is won which hope can ask, Reflect a light of hopeless snows That bright in virgin ether bask; Because, though free of the outer court I am, this Temple keeps its shrine Sacred to heaven; because, in short, She's not and never can be mine.

Coventry Patmore [1823-1896]



MY LOVE

Not as all other women are Is she that to my soul is dear; Her glorious fancies come from far, Beneath the silver evening-star, And yet her heart is ever near.

Great feelings hath she of her own, Which lesser souls may never know; God giveth them to her alone, And sweet they are as any tone Wherewith the wind may choose to blow.

Yet in herself she dwelleth not, Although no home were half so fair; No simplest duty is forgot, Life hath no dim and lowly spot That doth not in her sunshine share.

She doeth little kindnesses, Which most leave undone, or despise: For naught that sets one heart at ease, And giveth happiness or peace, Is low-esteemed in her eyes.

She hath no scorn of common things, And, though she seem of other birth, Round us her heart intwines and clings, And patiently she folds her wings To tread the humble paths of earth.

Blessing she is: God made her so, And deeds of week-day holiness Fall from her noiseless as the snow, Nor hath she ever chanced to know That aught were easier than to bless.

She is most fair, and thereunto Her life doth rightly harmonize; Feeling or thought that was not true Ne'er made less beautiful the blue Unclouded heaven of her eyes.

She is a woman: one in whom The spring-time of her childish years Hath never lost its fresh perfume, Though knowing well that life hath room For many blights and many tears.

I love her with a love as still As a broad river's peaceful might, Which, by high tower and lowly mill, Seems following its own wayward will, And yet doth ever flow aright.

And, on its full, deep breast serene, Like quiet isles my duties lie; It flows around them and between, And makes them fresh and fair and green, Sweet homes wherein to live and die.

James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]



MARGARET TO DOLCINO

Ask if I love thee? Oh, smiles cannot tell Plainer what tears are now showing too well. Had I not loved thee, my sky had been clear: Had I not loved thee, I had not been here, Weeping by thee.

Ask if I love thee? How else could I borrow Pride from man's slander, and strength from my sorrow? Laugh when they sneer at the fanatic's bride, Knowing no bliss, save to toil and abide Weeping by thee.

Charles Kingsley [1819-1875]



DOLCINO TO MARGARET

The world goes up and the world goes down, And the sunshine follows the rain; And yesterday's sneer, and yesterday's frown, Can never come over again, Sweet wife: No, never come over again.

For woman is warm, though man be cold, And the night will hallow the day; Till the heart which at even was weary and old Can rise in the morning gay, Sweet wife; To its work in the morning gay.

Charles Kingsley [1819-1875]



AT LAST

When first the bride and bridegroom wed, They love their single selves the best; A sword is in the marriage bed, Their separate slumbers are not rest. They quarrel, and make up again, They give and suffer worlds of pain. Both right and wrong, They struggle long, Till some good day, when they are old, Some dark day, when the bells are tolled, Death having taken their best of life, They lose themselves, and find each other; They know that they are husband, wife, For, weeping, they are Father, Mother!

Richard Henry Stoddard [1825-1903]



THE WIFE TO HER HUSBAND

Linger not long. Home is not home without thee: Its dearest tokens do but make me mourn. O, let its memory, like a chain about thee, Gently compel and hasten thy return!

Linger not long. Though crowds should woo thy staying, Bethink thee, can the mirth of thy friends, though dear, Compensate for the grief thy long delaying Costs the fond heart that sighs to have thee here?

Linger not long. How shall I watch thy coming, As evening shadows stretch o'er moor and dell; When the wild bee hath ceased her busy humming, And silence hangs on all things like a spell!

How shall I watch for thee, when fears grow stronger, As night grows dark and darker on the hill! How shall I weep, when I can watch no longer! Ah! art thou absent, art thou absent still?

Yet I shall grieve not, though the eye that seeth me Gazeth through tears that make its splendor dull; For oh! I sometimes fear when thou art with me, My cup of happiness is all too full.

Haste, haste thee home unto thy mountain dwelling, Haste, as a bird unto its peaceful nest! Haste, as a skiff, through tempests wide and swelling, Flies to its haven of securest rest!

Unknown



A WIFE'S SONG

O well I love the Spring, When the sweet, sweet hawthorn blows; And well I love the Summer, And the coming of the rose; But dearer are the changing leaf, And the year upon the wane, For O, they bring the blessed time That brings him home again.

November may be dreary, December's days may be As full of gloom to others As once they were to me; But O, to hear the tempest Beat loud against the pane! For the roaring wind and the blessed time That brings him home again.

William Cox Bennett [1820-1895]



THE SAILOR'S WIFE

And are ye sure the news is true? And are ye sure he's weel? Is this a time to talk o' wark? Ye jauds, fling by your wheel! Is this a time to spin a thread, When Colin's at the door? Rax down my cloak—I'll to the quay, And see him come ashore. For there's nae luck aboot the house, There's nae luck ava', There's little pleasure in the house, When our gudeman's awa'.

And gi'e to me my bigonet, My bishop's satin gown; For I maun tell the baillie's wife That Colin's in the town. My Turkey slippers maun gae on, My stockins pearly blue; It's a' to pleasure our gudeman, For he's baith leal and true.

Rise, lass, and mak' a clean fireside, Put on the muckle pot; Gi'e little Kate her button gown, And Jock his Sunday coat. And mak' their shoon as black as slaes, Their hose as white as snaw; It's a' to please my own gudeman, He likes to see them braw.

There's twa hens upon the bauk, Hae fed this month and mair; Mak' haste and thraw their necks about That Colin weel may fare! And spread the table neat and clean, Gar ilka thing look braw; For wha can tell how Colin fared, When he was far awa'?

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, His breath like caller air; His very foot has music in't As he comes up the stair. And will I see his face again, And will I hear him speak? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, In troth I'm like to greet!

If Colin's weel, and weel content, I ha'e nae mair to crave; And gin I live to keep him sae, I'm blest abune the lave. And will I see his face again, And will I hear him speak? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, In troth I'm like to greet! For there's nae luck aboot the house, There's nae luck ava'; There's little pleasure in the house When our gudeman's awa'.

William Julius Mickle [1735-1788] (or Jean Adam (?) [1710-1765])



JERRY AN' ME

No matter how the chances are, Nor when the winds may blow, My Jerry there has left the sea With all its luck an' woe: For who would try the sea at all, Must try it luck or no.

They told him—Lor', men take no care How words they speak may fall— They told him blunt, he was too old, Too slow with oar an' trawl, An' this is how he left the sea An' luck an' woe an' all.

Take any man on sea or land Out of his beaten way, If he is young 'twill do, but then, If he is old an' gray, A month will be a year to him. Be all to him you may.

He sits by me, but most he walks The door-yard for a deck, An' scans the boat a-goin' out Till she becomes a speck, Then turns away, his face as wet As if she were a wreck.

I cannot bring him back again, The days when we were wed. But he shall never know—my man— The lack o' love or bread, While I can cast a stitch or fill A needleful o' thread.

God pity me, I'd most forgot How many yet there be, Whose goodmen full as old as mine Are somewhere on the sea, Who hear the breakin' bar an' think O' Jerry home an'—me.

Hiram Rich [1832-1901]



"DON'T BE SORROWFUL, DARLING"

O don't be sorrowful, darling! And don't be sorrowful, pray; Taking the year together, my dear, There isn't more night than day.

'Tis rainy weather, my darling; Time's waves they heavily run; But taking the year together, my dear, There isn't more cloud than sun.

We are old folks now, my darling, Our heads are growing gray; But taking the year all round, my dear, You will always find the May.

We have had our May, my darling, And our roses long ago; And the time of the year is coming, my dear, For the silent night and the snow.

But God is God, my darling, Of the night as well as the day; And we feel and know that we can go Wherever He leads the way.

A God of the night, my darling, Of the night of death so grim; The gate that leads out of life, good wife, Is the gate that leads to Him.

Rembrandt Peale [1778-1860]



WINIFREDA

Away! let naught to love displeasing, My Winifreda, move your care; Let naught delay the heavenly blessing, Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear.

What though no grants of royal donors With pompous titles grace our blood, We'll shine in more substantial honors, And, to be noble, we'll be good.

Our name, while virtue thus we tender, Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke, And all the great ones, they shall wonder How they respect such little folk.

What though, from fortune's lavish bounty, No mighty treasures we possess; We'll find, within our pittance, plenty, And be content without excess.

Still shall each kind returning season Sufficient for our wishes give; For we will live life of reason, And that's the only life to live.

Through youth and age, in love excelling, We'll hand in hand together tread; Sweet smiling peace shall crown our dwelling And babes, sweet smiling babes, our bed.

How should I love the pretty creatures, While round my knees they fondly clung! To see them look their mother's features, To hear them lisp their mother's tongue!

And when with envy time transported Shall think to rob us of our joys, You'll in your girls again be courted, And I'll go wooing in my boys.

Unknown



AN OLD MAN'S IDYL

By the waters of Life we sat together, Hand in hand, in the golden days Of the beautiful early summer weather, When skies were purple and breath was praise, When the heart kept tune to the carol of birds, And the birds kept tune to the songs which ran Through shimmer of flowers on grassy swards, And trees with voices aeolian.

By the rivers of Life we walked together, I and my darling, unafraid; And lighter than any linnet's feather The burdens of being on us weighed; And Love's sweet miracles o'er us threw Mantles of joy outlasting Time, And up from the rosy morrows grew A sound that seemed like a marriage chime.

In the gardens of Life we strayed together, And the luscious apples were ripe and red, And the languid lilac, and honeyed heather Swooned with the fragrance which they shed; And under the trees the angels walked, And up in the air a sense of wings Awed us tenderly while we talked Softly in sacred communings.

In the meadows of Life we strayed together, Watching the waving harvests grow, And under the benison of the Father Our hearts, like the lambs, skipped to and fro; And the cowslip, hearing our low replies, Broidered fairer the emerald banks, And glad tears shone in the daisy's eyes, And the timid violet glistened thanks.

Who was with us, and what was round us, Neither myself nor my darling guessed; Only we knew that something crowned us Out from the heavens with crowns of rest; Only we knew that something bright Lingered lovingly where we stood, Clothed with the incandescent light Of something higher than humanhood.

Oh, the riches Love doth inherit! Oh, the alchemy which doth change Dross of body and dregs of spirit Into sanctities rare and strange! My flesh is feeble, and dry, and old, My darling's beautiful hair is gray; But our elixir and precious gold Laugh at the footsteps of decay.

Harms of the world have come unto us, Cups of sorrow we yet shall drain; But we have a secret which doth show us Wonderful rainbows in the rain. And we hear the tread of the years move by, And the sun is setting behind the hills; But my darling does not fear to die, And I am happy in what God wills.

So we sit by our household fires together, Dreaming the dreams of long ago; Then it was balmy, sunny weather, And now the valleys are laid in snow; Icicles hang from the slippery eaves, The wind blows cold,—'tis growing late; Well, well! we have garnered all our sheaves, I and my darling, and we wait.

Richard Realf [1834-1878]



THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE

How many summers, love, Have I been thine? How many days, thou dove, Hast thou been mine? Time, like the winged wind When it bends the flowers, Hath left no mark behind, To count the hours.

Some weight of thought, though loth, On thee he leaves; Some lines of care round both Perhaps he weaves; Some fears,—a soft regret For joys scarce known; Sweet looks we half forget;— All else is flown!

Ah!—With what thankless heart I mourn and sing! Look, where our children start, Like sudden Spring! With tongues all sweet and low, Like a pleasant rhyme, They tell how much I owe To thee and Time!

Bryan Waller Procter [1787-1874]



JOHN ANDERSON

John Anderson my jo, John, When we were first acquent Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is bald, John, Your locks are like the snow; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson my jo.

John Anderson my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither, And mony a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo.

Robert Burns [1759-1796]



TO MARY

"Thee, Mary, with this ring I wed, So, fourteen years ago, I said— Behold another ring!—"For what? To wed thee o'er again—why not?"

With that first ring I married Youth, Grace, Beauty, Innocence, and Truth; Taste long admired, sense long revered, And all my Molly then appeared. If she, by merit since disclosed, Prove twice the woman I supposed, I plead that double merit now, To justify a double vow.

Here then, to-day, (with faith as sure, With ardor as intense and pure, As when, amidst the rites divine, I took thy troth, and plighted mine), To thee, sweet girl, my second ring A token, and a pledge, I bring; With this I wed, till death us part, Thy riper virtues to my heart; Those virtues, which, before untried, The wife has added to the bride; Those virtues, whose progessive claim, Endearing wedlock's very name, My soul enjoys, my song approves, For Conscience' sake, as well as Love's.

For why?—They show me every hour, Honor's high thought, Affection's power, Discretion's deed, sound Judgment's sentence, And teach me all things—but Repentance.

Samuel Bishop [1731-1795]



THE GOLDEN WEDDING

O Love, whose patient pilgrim feet Life's longest path have trod; Whose ministry hath symbolled sweet The dearer love of God; The sacred myrtle wreathes again Thine altar, as of old; And what was green with summer then, Is mellowed now to gold.

Not now, as then, the future's face Is flushed with fancy's light; But memory, with a milder grace, Shall rule the feast to-night. Blest was the sun of joy that shone, Nor less the blinding shower; The bud of fifty years agone Is love's perfected flower.

O memory, ope thy mystic door; O dream of youth, return; And let the light that gleamed of yore Beside this altar burn. The past is plain; 'twas love designed E'en sorrow's iron chain; And, mercy's shining thread has twined With the dark warp of pain.

So be it still. O Thou who hast That younger bridal blest, Till the May-morn of love has passed To evening's golden west; Come to this later Cana, Lord, And, at thy touch divine, The water of that earlier board To-night shall turn to wine.

David Gray [1837-1888]



MOGGY AND ME

Oh wha are sae happy as me an' my Moggy? Oh wha are sae happy as Moggy an' me? We're baith turnin' auld, an' our walth is soon tauld, But contentment bides aye in our cottage sae wee. She toils a' the day when I'm out wi' the hirsel, An' chants to the bairns while I sing on the brae; An' aye her blithe smile welcomes me frae my toil, When down the glen I come weary an' wae.

Aboon our auld heads we've a nice little biggin, That keeps out the cauld when the simmer's awa; We've twa webs o' linen o' Moggy's ain spinnin', As thick as silk velvet and white as the snaw; We've kye in the byre, an' yauds in the stable, A grumphie sae fat that she hardly can stand; An' something, I guess, in yon auld painted press To cheer up the speerits an' steady the hand.

'Tis true we hae had mony sorrows an' crosses, Our pouches oft toom, an' our hearts fu' o' care; But wi' a' our crosses, our sorrows an' losses, Contentment, thank heaven! has aye been our share. I've an auld roostit sword that was left by my father, Whilk aye has been drawn when my king had a fae; We hae friends ane or twa that aft gie us a ca', To laugh when we're happy or grieve when we're wae.

Our duke may hae gowd mair than schoolmen can reckon, An' flunkies to watch ilka glance o' his e'e, His lady aye braw sittin' prim in her ha'; But are they sae happy as Moggy an' me? A' ye wha ne'er fand the straight road to be happy, Wha are nae content wi' the lot that ye dree, Come down to the dwellin' o' whilk I've been tellin', You'll learn it by lookin' at Moggy an' me.

James Hogg [1770-1835]



"O, LAY THY HAND IN MINE, DEAR!"

O, lay thy hand in mine, dear! We're growing old; But Time hath brought no sign, dear, That hearts grow cold. 'Tis long, long since our new love Made life divine; But age enricheth true love, Like noble wine.

And lay thy cheek to mine, dear, And take thy rest; Mine arms around thee twine, dear, And make thy nest. A many cares are pressing On this dear head; But Sorrow's hands in blessing Are surely laid.

O, lean thy life on mine, dear! 'Twill shelter thee. Thou wert a winsome vine, dear, On my young tree: And so, till boughs are leafless, And songbirds flown, We'll twine, then lay us, griefless Together down.

Gerald Massey [1828-1907]



THE EXEQUY

Accept, thou shrine of my dead saint, Instead of dirges this complaint; And for sweet flowers to crown thy hearse, Receive a strew of weeping verse From thy grieved friend, whom thou might'st see Quite melted into tears for thee. Dear loss! since thy untimely fate, My task hath been to meditate On thee, on thee: thou art the book, The library whereon I look, Though almost blind. For thee (loved clay) I languish out, not live, the day, Using no other exercise But which I practise with mine eyes: By which wet glasses I find out How lazily time creeps about To one that mourns: this, only this, My exercise and business is: So I compute the weary hours With sighs dissolved into showers.

Nor wonder if my time go thus Backward and most preposterous; Thou hast benighted me; thy set This eve of blackness did beget, Who wast my day (though overcast Before thou hadst thy noontide passed): And I remember must in tears Thou scarce hadst seen so many years As day tells hours. By thy clear sun My love and fortune first did run; But thou wilt never more appear Folded within my hemisphere, Since both thy light and motion, Like a fled star, is fallen and gone, And 'twixt me and my soul's dear wish The earth now interposed is, Which such a strange eclipse doth make As ne'er was read in almanac.

I could allow thee for a time To darken me and my sad clime; Were it a month, a year, or ten, I would thy exile live till then, And all that space my mirth adjourn, So thou wouldst promise to return, And putting off thy ashy shroud At length disperse this sorrow's cloud. But woe is me! the longest date Too narrow is to calculate These empty hopes: never shall I Be so much blest as to descry A glimpse of thee, till that day come Which shall the earth to cinders doom, And a fierce fever must calcine The body of this world—like thine, (My little world!) That fit of fire Once off, our bodies shall aspire To our souls' bliss: then we shall rise And view ourselves with clearer eyes In that calm region where no night Can hide us from each other's sight.

Meantime thou hast her, earth: much good May my harm do thee! Since it stood With Heaven's will I might not call Her longer mine, I give thee all My short-lived right and interest In her whom living I loved best: With a most free and bounteous grief I give thee what I could not keep. Be kind to her, and prithee look Thou write into thy Doomsday book Each parcel of this rarity Which in thy casket shrined doth lie, See that thou make thy reckoning straight, And yield her back again by weight; For thou must audit on thy trust Each grain and atom of this dust, As thou wilt answer Him that lent— Not gave—thee my dear monument. So close the ground, and 'bout her shade Black curtains draw: my bride is laid.

Sleep on, my Love, in thy cold bed Never to be disquieted! My last good-night! Thou wilt not wake Till I thy fate shall overtake: Till age, or grief, or sickness must Marry my body to that dust It so much loves; and fill the room My heart keeps empty in thy tomb. Stay for me there: I will not fail To meet thee in that hollow vale. And think not much of my delay: I am already on the way, And follow thee with all the speed Desire can make, or sorrows breed. Each minute is a short degree And every hour a step towards thee. At night when I betake to rest, Next morn I rise nearer my west Of life, almost by eight hours' sail, Than when sleep breathed his drowsy gale.

Thus from the Sun my bottom steers, And my day's compass downward bears: Nor labor I to stem the tide Through which to thee I swiftly glide. 'Tis true, with shame and grief I yield, Thou, like the van, first took'st the field; And gotten hast the victory In thus adventuring to die Before me, whose more years might crave A just precedence in the grave. But hark! my pulse, like a soft drum, Beats my approach, tells thee I come: And slow howe'er my marches be I shall at last sit down by thee.

The thought of this bids me go on And wait my dissolution With hope and comfort. Dear (forgive The crime), I am content to live Divided, with but half a heart, Till we shall meet and never part.

Henry King [1592-1669]



LOVE SONNETS



SONNETS From "Amoretti"

III The sovereign beauty which I do admire, Witness the world how worthy to be praised! The light whereof hath kindled heavenly fire In my frail spirit, by her from baseness raised; That being now with her huge brightness dazed, Base thing I can no more endure to view: But, looking still on her, I stand amazed At wondrous sight of so celestial hue. So when my tongue would speak her praises due, It stopped is with thought's astonishment; And when my pen would write her titles true, It ravished is with fancy's wonderment: Yet in my heart I then both speak and write The wonder that my wit cannot indite.

VIII More than most fair, full of the living fire Kindled above unto the Maker near; No eyes but joys, in which all powers conspire That to the world naught else be counted dear; Through your bright beams doth not the blinded guest Shoot out his darts to base affections wound; But angels come to lead frail minds to rest In chaste desires, on heavenly beauty bound. You frame my thoughts, and fashion me within; You stop my tongue, and teach my heart to speak; You calm the storm that passion did begin, Strong through your cause, but by your virtue weak. Dark is the world, where your light shined never; Well is he born that may behold you ever.

XXIV When I behold that beauty's wonderment, And rare perfection of each goodly part, Of Nature's still the only complement, I honor and admire the Maker's art. But when I feel the bitter baleful smart Which her fair eyes un'wares do work in me, That death out of their shiny beams do dart, I think that I a new Pandora see, Whom all the gods in council did agree Into this sinful world from heaven to send, That she to wicked men a scourge should be, For all their faults with which they did offend. But since ye are my scourge, I will entreat That for my faults ye will me gently beat.

XXXIV Like as a ship, that through the ocean wide, By conduct of some star doth make her way, Whenas a storm hath dimmed her trusty guide, Out of her course doth wander far astray; So I, whose star, that wont with her bright ray Me to direct, with clouds is overcast, Do wander now, in darkness and dismay, Through hidden perils round about me placed; Yet hope I well that, when this storm is past, My Helice, the lodestar of my life, Will shine again, and look on me at last, With lovely light to clear my cloudy grief: Till then I wander care-full, comfortless, In secret sorrow, and sad pensiveness.

LV So oft as I her beauty do behold, And therewith do her cruelty compare, I marvel of what substance was the mould, The which her made at once so cruel fair; Not earth, for her high thoughts more heavenly are; Not water, for her love doth burn like fire; Not air, for she is not so light or rare; Not fire, for she doth freeze with faint desire. Then needs another element inquire Whereof she might be made—that is, the sky; For to the heaven her haughty looks aspire, And eke her mind is pure immortal high. Then, since to heaven ye likened are the best, Be like in mercy as in all the rest.

LXVIII Most glorious Lord of Life! that on this day Didst make thy triumph over death and sin, And, having harrowed hell, didst bring away Captivity thence captive, us to win, This joyous day, dear Lord, with joy begin; And grant that we, for whom thou diddest die, Being with thy dear blood clean washed from sin, May live forever in felicity; And that thy love we weighing worthily, May likewise love thee for the same again, And for thy sake, that all 'like dear didst buy, With love may one another entertain! So let us love, dear Love, like as we ought: Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught.

LXX Fresh Spring, the herald of love's mighty king, In whose coat-armor richly are displayed All sorts of flowers the which on earth do spring In goodly colors gloriously arrayed; Go to my love, where she is careless laid, Yet in her winter's bower not well awake; Tell her the joyous time will not be stayed, Unless she do him by the forelock take; Bid her therefore herself soon ready make To wait on Love amongst his lovely crew; Where everyone that misseth then her mate Shall be by him amerced with penance due. Make haste, therefore, sweet love, whilst it is prime; For none can call again the passed time.

LXXV One day I wrote her name upon the strand, But came the waves and washed it away: Again I wrote it with a second hand, But came the tide and made my pains his prey. "Vain man," said she, "that dost in vain essay A mortal thing so to immortalize; For I myself shall like to this decay, And eke my name be wiped out likewise." "Not so," quoth I; "let baser things devise To die in dust, but you shall live by fame; My verse your virtues rare shall eternize, And in the heavens write your glorious name: Where, whenas Death shall all the world subdue, Our love shall live, and later life renew."

LXXIX Men call you fair, and you do credit it, For that yourself ye daily such do see: But the true fair, that is the gentle wit And virtuous mind, is much more praised of me: For all the rest, however fair it be, Shall turn to naught and lose that glorious hue; But only that is permanent and free From frail corruption that doth flesh ensue. That is true beauty; that doth argue you To be divine, and born of heavenly seed; Derived from that fair Spirit from whom all true And perfect beauty did at first proceed: He only fair, and what he fair hath made; All other fair, like flowers, untimely fade.

Edmund Spenser [1552?-1599]



SONNETS From "Astrophel and Stella"

I Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show, That She, dear She! might take some pleasure of my pain; Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know, Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain: I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe, Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain; Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flow Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburnt brain: But words came halting forth, wanting Invention's stay. Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame Study's blows; And others' feet still seemed but strangers in my way. Thus, great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes, Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite: "Fool!" said my Muse to me, "look in thy heart, and write!"

XXXI With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies! How silently, and with how wan a face! What! may it be that even in heavenly place That busy archer his sharp arrows tries? Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case; I read it in thy looks. Thy languished grace To me, that feel the like, thy state descries. Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, Is constant love deemed there but want of wit? Are beauties there as proud as here they be? Do they above love to be loved, and yet Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess? Do they call virtue there, ungratefulness?

XXXIX Come Sleep! O Sleep, the certain knot of peace, The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, The indifferent judge between the high and low! With shield of proof, shield me from out the press Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw: O make in me those civil wars to cease! I will good tribute pay if thou do so. Take thou of me, smooth pillows, sweetest bed, A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light, A rosy garland, and a weary head: And if these things, as being thine in right, Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me, Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see.

LXII Late tired with woe, even ready for to pine With rage of love, I called my Love unkind; She in whose eyes love, though unfelt, doth shine, Sweet said that I true love in her should find. I joyed; but straight thus watered was my wine, That love she did, but loved a love not blind; Which would not let me, whom she loved, decline From nobler cause, fit for my birth and mind: And therefore, by her love's authority, Willed me these tempests of vain love to fly, And anchor fast myself on Virtue's shore. Alas, if this the only metal be Of love new-coined to help my beggary, Dear! love me not, that ye may love me more!

LXIV No more, my Dear, no more these counsels try; O give my passions leave to run their race! Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace; Let folk o'ercharged with brain, against me cry; Let clouds bedim my face, break in mine eye; Let me no steps but of lost labor trace; Let all the earth with scorn recount my case; But do not will me from my love to fly! I do not envy Aristotle's wit; Nor do aspire to Caesar's bleeding fame; Nor aught do care, though some above me sit; Nor hope, nor wish another course to frame, But that which once may win thy cruel heart: Thou art my Wit, and thou my Virtue art.

LXXIII Love still a boy and oft a wanton is, Schooled only by his mother's tender eye; What wonder, then, if he his lesson miss, When for so soft a rod dear play he try? And yet my Star, because a sugared kiss In sport I sucked while she asleep did lie, Doth lower, nay chide, nay threat, for only this.— Sweet, it was saucy Love, not humble I! But no 'scuse serves; she makes her wrath appear In Beauty's throne; see now, who dares come near Those scarlet judges, threatening bloody pain! O heavenly fool, thy most kiss-worthy face Anger invests with such a lovely grace, That Anger's self I needs must kiss again.

CIII O happy Thames that didst my Stella bear! I saw thee with full many a smiling line Upon thy cheerful face, Joy's livery wear, While those fair planets on thy streams did shine. The boat for joy could not to dance forbear; While wanton winds, with beauties so divine, Ravished, stayed not, till in her golden hair They did themselves, (O sweetest prison!) twine. And fain those Aeol's youths there would their stay Have made, but forced by Nature still to fly, First did with puffing kiss those locks display. She so dishevelled, blushed. From window, I, With sight thereof, cried out, "O fair disgrace! Let Honor's self to thee grant highest place!"

CVII Stella! since thou so right a Princess art Of all the powers which life bestows on me, That ere by them aught undertaken be, They first resort unto that sovereign part; Sweet! for a while give respite to my heart, Which pants as though it still should leap to thee; And on my thoughts give thy lieutenancy To this great cause, which needs both use and art. And as a Queen, who from her presence sends Whom she employs, dismiss from thee my wit, Till it have wrought what thy own will attends: On servants' shame oft master's blame doth sit. O, let not fools in me thy works reprove, And scorning, say, "See what it is to love!"

Philip Sidney [1554-1586]



SONNETS From "To Delia"

VI Fair is my Love, and cruel as she's fair: Her brow shades frowns, although her eyes are sunny; Her smiles are lightning, though her pride despair, And her disdains are gall, her favors honey. A modest maid, decked with a blush of honor, Whose feet do tread green paths of youth and love; The wonder of all eyes that look upon her, Sacred on earth, designed a Saint above. Chastity and Beauty, which were deadly foes, Live reconciled friends within her brow; And had she Pity to conjoin with those, Then who had heard the plaints I utter now? O had she not been fair, and thus unkind, My Muse had slept, and none had known my mind.

XII My spotless love hovers, with purest wings, About the temple of the proudest frame, Where blaze those lights, fairest of earthly things, Which clear our clouded world with brightest flame. My ambitious thoughts, confined in her face, Affect no honor but what she can give; My hopes do rest in limits of her grace; I weigh no comfort, unless she relieve. For she, that can my heart imparadise, Holds in her fairest hand what dearest is. My Fortune's Wheel's the Circle of her Eyes, Whose rolling grace deign once a turn of bliss! All my life's sweet consists in her alone; So much I love the most unloving one.

XXX And yet I cannot reprehend the flight Or blame the attempt, presuming so to soar; The mounting venture, for a high delight, Did make the honor of the fall the more. For who gets wealth, that puts not from the shore? Danger hath honor; great designs, their fame; Glory doth follow, courage goes before; And though the event oft answers not the same, Suffice that high attempts have never shame. The Mean-observer (whom base safety keeps) Lives without honor, dies without a name, And in eternal darkness ever sleeps. And therefore, Delia! 'tis to me no blot To have attempted, though attained thee not.

XXXVI When men shall find thy flower, thy glory pass, And thou, with careful brow, sitting alone, Received hast this message from thy glass, That tells the truth, and says that All is gone; Fresh shalt thou see in me the wounds thou madest, Though spent thy flame, in me the heat remaining: I that have loved thee thus before thou fadest, My faith shall wax, when thou art in thy waning! The world shall find this miracle in me, That fire can burn when all the matter's spent: Then what my faith hath been, thyself shalt see, And that thou wast unkind, thou may'st repent! Thou may'st repent that thou hast scorned my tears, When Winter snows upon thy golden hairs.

XXXIX Look, Delia, how we esteem the half-blown rose The image of thy blush, and Summer's honor! Whilst yet her tender bud doth undisclose That full of beauty Time bestows upon her. No sooner spreads her glory in the air But straight her wide-blown pomp comes to decline; She then is scorned that late adorned the fair; So fade the roses of those cheeks of thine. No April can revive thy withered flowers Whose springing grace adorns thy glory now; Swift, speedy Time, feathered with flying hours, Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow. Then do not thou such treasure waste in vain, But love now, whilst thou may'st be loved again.

XLV Beauty, sweet Love, is like the morning dew, Whose short refresh upon the tender green Cheers for a time, but till the sun doth show: And straight 'tis gone, as it had never been. Soon doth it fade, that makes the fairest flourish; Short is the glory of the blushing rose: The hue which thou so carefully dost nourish, Yet which, at length, thou must be forced to lose. When thou, surcharged with burthen of thy years, Shalt bend thy wrinkles homeward to the earth; When Time hath made a passport for thy fears, Dated in Age, the Calends of our Death: But ah, no more! This hath been often told; And women grieve to think they must be old.

XLVI I must not grieve my Love, whose eyes would read Lines of delight, whereon her youth might smile! Flowers have a time, before they come to seed; And she is young, and now must sport the while. And sport, Sweet Maid, in season of these years, And learn to gather flowers before they wither! And where the sweetest blossom first appears, Let Love and Youth conduct thy pleasures thither! Lighten forth smiles to clear the clouded air, And calm the tempest which my sighs do raise! Pity and smiles do best become the fair; Pity and smiles shall yield thee lasting praise. I hope to say, when all my griefs are gone, "Happy the heart that sighed for such a one!"

L Let others sing of Knights and Paladines In aged accents and untimely words, Paint shadows in imaginary lines, Which well the reach of their high wit records: But I must sing of Thee, and those fair eyes! Authentic shall my verse in time to come, When the yet unborn shall say, Lo, where she lies! Whose beauty made him speak, that else was dumb! These are the arks, the trophies I erect, That fortify thy name against old age; And these thy sacred virtues must protect Against the Dark, and Time's consuming rage. Though the error of my youth in them appear, Suffice, they showed I lived, and loved thee dear.

LI Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night, Brother to Death, in silent darkness born: Relieve my languish, and restore the light; With dark forgetting of my care, return! And let the day be time enough to mourn The shipwreck of my ill-adventured youth: Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn, Without the torment of the night's untruth. Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires, To model forth the passions of the morrow; Never let rising sun approve you liars, To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow. Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain; And never wake to feel the day's disdain.

Samuel Daniel [1562-1619]



SONNETS From "Idea" To The Reader Of These Sonnets

Into these Loves, who but for Passion looks, At this first sight, here let him lay them by, And seek elsewhere in turning other books, Which better may his labor satisfy. No far-fetched sigh shall ever wound my breast; Love from mine eye a tear shall never wring; Nor in "Ah me's!" my whining sonnets dressed! A libertine, fantasticly I sing! My verse is the true image of my mind, Ever in motion, still desiring change; And as thus, to variety inclined, So in all humors sportively I range! My Muse is rightly of the English strain, That cannot long one fashion entertain.

IV Bright Star of Beauty! on whose eyelids sit A thousand nymph-like and enamored Graces, The Goddesses of Memory and Wit, Which there in order take their several places; In whose dear bosom, sweet delicious Love Lays down his quiver, which he once did bear, Since he that blessed paradise did prove; And leaves his mother's lap, to sport him there. Let others strive to entertain with words! My soul is of a braver mettle made: I hold that vile, which vulgar wit affords, In me's that faith which Time cannot invade! Let what I praise be still made good by you! Be you most worthy, whilst I am most true!

XX An evil Spirit (your Beauty) haunts me still, Wherewith, alas, I have been long possessed; Which ceaseth not to attempt me to each ill, Nor give me once, but one poor minute's rest. In me it speaks, whether I sleep or wake; And when by means to drive it out I try, With greater torments then it me doth take, And tortures me in most extremity. Before my face, it lays down my despairs, And hastes me on unto a sudden death; Now tempting me, to drown myself in tears, And then in sighing to give up my breath. Thus am I still provoked to every evil, By this good-wicked Spirit, sweet Angel-Devil.

XXXVII Dear! why should you command me to my rest, When now the night doth summon all to sleep? Methinks this time becometh lovers best! Night was ordained together friends to keep. How happy are all other living things, Which, through the day, disjoined by several flight, The quiet evening yet together brings, And each returns unto his Love at night! O thou that art so courteous else to all, Why shouldst thou, Night, abuse me only thus! That every creature to his kind doth call, And yet 'tis thou dost only sever us? Well could I wish it would be ever day, If, when night comes, you bid me go away!

XL My heart the Anvil where my thoughts do beat; My words the Hammers fashioning my Desire; My breast the Forge including all the heat, Love is the Fuel which maintains the fire. My sighs the Bellows which the flame increaseth, Filling mine ears with noise and nightly groaning. Toiling with pain, my labor never ceaseth; In grievous Passions, my woes still bemoaning. My eyes with tears against the fire striving, Whose scorching glede my heart to cinders turneth: But with those drops, the flame again reviving Still more and more it to my torment burneth. With Sisyphus thus do I roll the stone, And turn the wheel with damned Ixion.

XLII How many paltry, foolish, painted things, That now in coaches trouble every street, Shall be forgotten, whom no poet sings, Ere they be well wrapped in their winding-sheet? Where I to thee eternity shall give, When nothing else remaineth of these days, And queens hereafter shall be glad to live Upon the alms of thy superfluous praise; Virgins and matrons reading these my rhymes, Shall be so much delighted with thy story, That they shall grieve they lived not in these times, To have seen thee, their sex's only glory: So shalt thou fly above the vulgar throng, Still to survive in my immortal song.

LXI Since there's no help, come, let us kiss and part! Nay, I have done. You get no more of me! And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart, That thus so cleanly I myself can free. Shake hands for ever! Cancel all our vows! And when we meet at any time again, Be it not seen in either of our brows That we one jot of former love retain. Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath, When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies, When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And Innocence is closing up his eyes: Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him over, From death to life thou might'st him yet recover!

Michael Drayton [1563-1631]



SONNETS From "Diana"

IX My Lady's presence makes the Roses red, Because to see her lips they blush for shame. The Lily's leaves, for envy pale became; And her white hands in them this envy bred. The Marigold the leaves abroad doth spread, Because the sun's and her power is the same. The Violet of purple color came, Dyed in the blood she made my heart to shed. In brief, all flowers from her their virtue take; From her sweet breath, their sweet smells do proceed; The living heat which her eyebeams doth make Warmeth the ground, and quickeneth the seed. The rain, wherewith she watereth the flowers, Falls from mine eyes, which she dissolves in showers.

LXII To live in hell, and heaven to behold; To welcome life, and die a living death; To sweat with heat, and yet be freezing cold; To grasp at stars, and lie the earth beneath; To tread a maze that never shall have end; To burn in sighs, and starve in daily tears; To climb a hill, and never to descend; Giants to kill, and quake at childish fears; To pine for food, and watch the Hesperian tree; To thirst for drink, and nectar still to draw; To live accurst, whom men hold blest to be; And weep those wrongs which never creature saw; If this be love, if love in these be founded, My heart is love, for these in it are grounded.

Henry Constable (?) [1562-1613]



SONNETS

XVIII Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And Summer's lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimmed; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature's changing course untrimmed: But thy eternal Summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest: So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

XXIII As an unperfect actor on the stage, Who with his fear is put besides his part, Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage, Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart; So I, for fear of trust, forget to say The perfect ceremony of love's rite, And in mine own love's strength seem to decay, O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might. O, let my books be then the eloquence And dumb presagers of my speaking breast; Who plead for love, and look for recompense, More than that tongue that more hath more expressed. O, learn to read what silent love hath writ: To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.

XXIX When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself, and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possessed, Desiring this man's art and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Haply I think on thee: and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate: For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

XXX When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste: Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, And weep afresh love's long-since cancelled woe, And moan the expense of many a vanished sight: Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, Which I new pay as if not paid before: But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored, and sorrows end.

XXXII If thou survive my well-contented day When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover, And shalt by fortune once more re-survey These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover, Compare them with the bettering of the time, And though they be outstripped by every pen, Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme, Exceeded by the height of happier men. O, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought: "Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age, A dearer birth than this his love had brought, To march in ranks of better equipage: But since he died, and poets better prove, Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love."

XXXIII Full many a glorious morning have I seen Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye, Kissing with golden lace the meadows green, Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy. Anon permit the basest clouds to ride With ugly rack on his celestial face, And from the forlorn world his visage hide, Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace: Even so my sun one early morn did shine With all-triumphant splendor on my brow; But out, alack! he was but one hour mine, The region cloud hath masked him from me now. Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth; Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.

LX Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes hasten to their end; Each changing place with that which goes before, In sequent toil all forwards do contend. Nativity, once in the main of light, Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crowned, Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight, And Time that gave, doth now his gift confound. Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth, And delves the parallels in beauty's brow; Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth, And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow: And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall stand Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

LXXI No longer mourn for me when I am dead, Than you shall hear the surly, sullen bell Give warning to the world that I am fled From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell: Nay, if you read this line, remember not The hand that writ it; for I love you so, That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, If thinking on me then should make you woe. O, if (I say) you look upon this verse, When I perhaps compounded am with clay, Do not so much as my poor name rehearse, But let your love even with my life decay; Lest the wise world should look into your moan, And mock you with me after I am gone.

LXXIII That time of year thou may'st in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou see'st the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by black night doth take away, Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed whereon it must expire, Consumed with that which it was nourished by. This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

CIV To me, fair friend, you never can be old; For as you were when first your eye I eyed, Such seems your beauty still. Three Winters cold Have from the forests shook three Summers' pride; Three beauteous Springs to yellow Autumn turned In process of the seasons have I seen, Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burned, Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green. Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand, Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived; So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived: For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred: Ere you were born was beauty's Summer dead.

CVI When in the chronicle of wasted time I see descriptions of the fairest wights, And beauty making beautiful old rhyme In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights; Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, I see their antique pen would have expressed Even such a beauty as you master now. So all their praises are but prophecies Of this our time, all, you prefiguring; And, for they looked but with divining eyes, They had not skill enough your worth to sing: For we, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

CIX O, never say that I was false of heart Though absence seemed my flame to qualify: As easy might I from myself depart As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie; That is my home of love; if I have ranged, Like him that travels, I return again, Just to the time, not with the time exchanged, So that myself bring water for my stain. Never believe, though in my nature reigned All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood, That it could so preposterously be stained To leave for nothing all thy sum of good! For nothing this wide universe I call, Save thou, my rose: in it thou art my all.

CXVI Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests, and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom: If this be error, and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

CXXX My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips' red; If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damasked, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; And in some perfumes is there more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak,—yet well I know That music hath a far more pleasing sound; I grant I never saw a goddess go,— My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground: And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.

CXLVI Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, Pressed by these rebel powers that thee array, Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth, Painting thy outward walls so costly gay? Why so large cost, having so short a lease, Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? Shall worms, inheritors of this excess, Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end? Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss, And let that pine to aggravate thy store; Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross; Within be fed, without be rich no more: So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men; And Death once dead, there's no more dying then.

William Shakespeare [1564-1616]



"ALEXIS, HERE SHE STAYED"

Alexis, here she stayed; among these pines, Sweet hermitress, she did alone repair; Here did she spread the treasure of her hair, More rich than that brought from the Colchian mines. She set her by these musked eglantines, The happy place the print seems yet to bear; Her voice did sweeten here thy sugared lines, To which winds, trees, beasts, birds, did lend their ear. Me here she first perceived, and here a morn Of bright carnations did o'erspread her face; Here did she sigh, here first my hopes were born, And I first got a pledge of promised grace: But, ah! what served it to be happy so, Since passed pleasures double but new woe?

William Drummond [1585-1649]



"WERE I AS BASE AS IS THE LOWLY PLAIN"

Were I as base as is the lowly plain, And you, my love, as high as heaven above, Yet should the thoughts of me, your humble swain, Ascend to heaven in honor of my love. Were I as high as heaven above the plain, And you, my love, as humble and as low As are the deepest bottoms of the main, Wheresoe'er you were, with you my love should go. Were you the earth, dear love, and I the skies, My love should shine on you, like to the sun, And look upon you with ten thousand eyes, Till heaven waxed blind and till the world were done. Wheresoe'er I am,—below, or else above you,— Wheresoe'er you are, my heart shall truly love you.

Joshua Sylvester [1563-1618]



A SONNET OF THE MOON

Look how the pale Queen of the silent night Doth cause the ocean to attend upon her, And he, as long as she is in his sight, With his full tide is ready her to honor: But when the silver wagon of the Moon Is mounted up so high he cannot follow, The sea calls home his crystal waves to moan, And with low ebb doth manifest his sorrow. So you that are the sovereign of my heart, Have all my joys attending on your will, My joys low-ebbing when you do depart, When you return, their tide my heart doth fill. So as you come, and as you do depart, Joys ebb and flow within my tender heart.

Charles Best [fl. 1602]



TO MARY UNWIN

Mary! I want a lyre with other strings, Such aid from Heaven as some have feigned they drew, An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new And undebased by praise of meaner things; That, ere through age or woe I shed my wings, I may record thy worth with honor due, In verse as musical as thou art true, And that immortalizes whom it sings: But thou hast little need. There is a Book By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light, On which the eyes of God not rarely look, A chronicle of actions just and bright: There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine; And, since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.

William Cowper [1731-1800]



"WHY ART THOU SILENT"

Why art thou silent? Is thy love a plant Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air Of absence withers what was once so fair? Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant? Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant, Bound to thy service with unceasing care— The mind's least generous wish a mendicant For naught but what thy happiness could spare. Speak!—though this soft warm heart, once free to hold A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine, Be left more desolate, more dreary cold Than a forsaken bird's-nest filled with snow 'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine— Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know!

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]



SONNETS From "The House of Life"

IV LOVESIGHT When do I see thee most, beloved one? When in the light the spirits of mine eyes Before thy face, their altar, solemnize The worship of that Love through thee made known? Or when in the dusk hours, (we two alone,) Close-kissed and eloquent of still replies Thy twilight-hidden glimmering visage lies, And my soul only sees thy soul its own? O love, my love! if I no more should see Thyself, nor on the earth the shadow of thee, Nor image of thine eyes in any spring,— How then should sound upon Life's darkening slope The ground-whirl of the perished leaves of Hope, The wind of Death's imperishable wing?

V HEART'S HOPE By what word's power, the key of paths untrod, Shall I the difficult deeps of Love explore, Till parted waves of Song yield up the shore Even as that sea which Israel crossed dryshod? For lo! in some poor rhythmic period, Lady, I fain would tell how evermore Thy soul I know not from thy body, nor Thee from myself, neither our love from God. Yea, in God's name, and Love's, and thine, would I Draw from one loving heart such evidence As to all hearts all things shall signify; Tender as dawn's first lull-fire, and intense As instantaneous penetrating sense, In Spring's birth-hour, of other Springs gone by.

XV THE BIRTH-BOND Have you not noted, in some family Where two were born of a first marriage-bed, How still they own their gracious bond, though fed And nursed on the forgotten breast and knee?— How to their father's children they shall be In act and thought of one goodwill; but each Shall for the other have, in silence speech, And in a word complete community? Even so, when first I saw you, seemed it, love, That among souls allied to mine was yet One nearer kindred than life hinted of. O born with me somewhere that men forget, And though in years of sight and sound unmet, Known for my soul's birth-partner well enough!

XIX SILENT NOON Your hands lie open in the long fresh grass,— The finger-points look through like rosy blooms: Your eyes smile peace. The pasture gleams and glooms 'Neath billowing skies that scatter and amass. All round our nest, far as the eye can pass, Are golden kingcup-fields with silver edge Where the cow-parsley skirts the hawthorn-hedge. 'Tis visible silence, still as the hour-glass. Deep in the sun-searched growths the dragon-fly Hangs like a blue thread loosened from the sky:— So this winged hour is dropped to us from above. Oh! clasp we to our hearts, for deathless dower, This close-companioned inarticulate hour When twofold silence was the song of love.

XXVI MID-RAPTURE Thou lovely and beloved, thou my love; Whose kiss seems still the first; whose summoning eyes, Even now, as for our love-world's new sunrise, Shed very dawn; whose voice, attuned above All modulation of the deep-bowered dove, Is like a hand laid softly on the soul; Whose hand is like a sweet voice to control Those worn tired brows it hath the keeping of:— What word can answer to thy word,—what gaze To thine, which now absorbs within its sphere My worshipping face, till I am mirrored there Light-circled in a heaven of deep-drawn rays? What clasp, what kiss mine inmost heart can prove, O lovely and beloved, O my love?

XXXI HER GIFTS High grace, the dower of queens; and therewithal Some wood-born wonder's sweet simplicity; A glance like water brimming with the sky Or hyacinth-light where forest-shadows fall; Such thrilling pallor of cheek as doth enthrall The heart; a mouth whose passionate forms imply All music and all silence held thereby; Deep golden locks, her sovereign coronal; A round reared neck, meet column of Love's shrine To cling to when the heart takes sanctuary; Hands which for ever at Love's bidding be, And soft-stirred feet still answering to his sign:— These are her gifts, as tongue may tell them o'er. Breathe low her name, my soul; for that means more.

XXXIV THE DARK GLASS Not I myself know all my love for thee: How should I reach so far, who cannot weigh To-morrow's dower by gage of yesterday? Shall birth and death, and all dark names that be As doors and windows bared to some loud sea, Lash deaf mine ears and blind my face with spray; And shall my sense pierce love,—the last relay And ultimate outpost of eternity? Lo! what am I to Love, the lord of all? One murmuring shell he gathers from the sand,— One little heart-flame sheltered in his hand. Yet through thine eyes he grants me clearest call And veriest touch of powers primordial That any hour-girt life may understand.

XLIX WILLOWWOOD I sat with Love upon a woodside well, Leaning across the water, I and he; Nor ever did he speak nor looked at me, But touched his lute wherein was audible The certain secret thing he had to tell: Only our mirrored eyes met silently In the low wave; and that sound came to be The passionate voice I knew; and my tears fell. And at their fall, his eyes beneath grew hers; And with his foot and with his wing-feathers He swept the spring that watered my heart's drouth. Then the dark ripples spread to waving hair, And as I stooped, her own lips rising there Bubbled with brimming kisses at my mouth.

LXXVIII BODY'S BEAUTY Or Adam's first wife, Lilith, it is told (The witch he loved before the gift of Eve,) That, ere the snake's, her sweet tongue could deceive, And her enchanted hair was the first gold. And still she sits, young while the earth is old, And, subtly of herself contemplative, Draws men to watch the bright web she can weave, Till heart and body and life are in its hold. The rose and poppy are her flowers: for where Is he not found, O Lilith! whom shed scent And soft-shed kisses and soft sleep shall snare? Lo! as that youth's eyes burned at thine, so went Thy spell through him, and left his straight neck bent, And round his heart one strangling golden hair.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti [1828-1882]



SONNETS

MEETING They made the chamber sweet with flowers and leaves, And the bed sweet with flowers on which I lay; While my soul, love-bound, loitered on its way. I did not hear the birds about the eaves, Nor hear the reapers talk among the sheaves: Only my soul kept watch from day to day, My thirsty soul kept watch for one away:— Perhaps he loves, I thought, remembers, grieves. At length there came the step upon the stair, Upon the lock the old familiar hand: Then first my spirit seemed to scent the air Of Paradise; then first the tardy sand Of time ran golden; and I felt my hair Put on a glory, and my soul expand.

THE FIRST DAY I wish I could remember the first day, First hour, first moment of your meeting me, If bright or dim the season, it might be Summer or Winter for aught I can say; So unrecorded did it slip away, So blind was I to see and to foresee, So dull to mark the budding of my tree That would not blossom yet for many a May. If only I could recollect it, such A day of days! I let it come and go As traceless as a thaw of bygone snow; It seemed to mean so little, meant so much; If only now I could recall that touch, First touch of hand in hand—Did one but know!

REMEMBER Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay. Remember me when no more, day by day, You tell me of our future that you planned: Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray. Yet if you should forget me for a while And afterwards remember, do not grieve: For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad.

REST O earth, lie heavily upon her eyes; Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching, Earth; Lie close around her; leave no room for mirth With its harsh laughter, nor for sound of sighs. She hath no questions, she hath no replies, Hushed in and curtained with a blessed dearth Of all that irked her from the hour of birth; With stillness that is almost Paradise. Darkness more clear than noonday holdeth her, Silence more musical than any song; Even her very heart has ceased to stir: Until the morning of Eternity Her rest shall not begin nor end, but be; And when she wakes she will not think it long.

Christina Georgina Rossetti [1830-1894]



HOW MY SONGS OF HER BEGAN

God made my lady lovely to behold;— Above the painter's dream he set her face, And wrought her body in divinest grace; He touched the brown hair with a sense of gold, And in the perfect form He did enfold What was alone as perfect, the sweet heart; Knowledge most rare to her He did impart, And filled with love and worship all her days. And then God thought Him how it would be well To give her music, and to Love He said, "Bring thou some minstrel now that he may tell How fair and sweet a thing My hands have made." Then at Love's call I came, bowed down my head, And at His will my lyre grew audible.

Philip Bourke Marston [1850-1887]



AT THE LAST

Because the shadows deepened verily,— Because the end of all seemed near, forsooth,— Her gracious spirit, ever quick to ruth, Had pity on her bond-slave, even on me. She came in with the twilight noiselessly, Fair as a rose, immaculate as Truth; She leaned above my wrecked and wasted youth; I felt her presence, which I could not see. "God keep you, my poor friend," I heard her say; And then she kissed my dry, hot lips and eyes. Kiss thou the next kiss, quiet Death, I pray; Be instant on this hour, and so surprise My spirit while the vision seems to stay; Take thou the heart with the heart's Paradise.