Love hath his meter too, to trace Those bounds which never yet were given,— To measure that which mocks at space, Is deep as death, and high as heaven.

Love hath his treasure hoards, to pay True faith, or goodly service done,— Dear priceless nothings, which outweigh All riches that the sun shines on.

Helen Selina Sheridan [1807-1867]



SONG From "Maud"

O, let the solid ground, Not fail beneath my feet Before my life has found What some have found so sweet; Then let come what come may, What matter if I go mad, I shall have had my day.

Let the sweet heavens endure, Not close and darken above me Before I am quite quite sure That there is one to love me! Then let come what come may To a life that has been so sad, I shall have had my day.

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]



AMATURUS

Somewhere beneath the sun, These quivering heart-strings prove it, Somewhere there must be one Made for this soul to move it; Some one that hides her sweetness From neighbors whom she slights, Nor can attain completeness, Nor give her heart its rights; Some one whom I could court With no great change of manner, Still holding reason's fort, Though waving fancy's banner; A lady, not so queenly As to disdain my hand, Yet born to smile serenely Like those that rule the land; Noble, but not too proud; With soft hair simply folded, And bright face crescent-browed, And throat by Muses moulded; And eyelids lightly falling On little glistening seas, Deep-calm, when gales are brawling, Though stirred by every breeze; Swift voice, like flight of dove Through minster-arches floating, With sudden turns, when love Gets overnear to doting; Keen lips, that shape soft sayings Like crystals of the snow, With pretty half-betrayings Of things one may not know; Fair hand whose touches thrill, Like golden rod of wonder, Which Hermes wields at will Spirit and flesh to sunder; Light foot, to press the stirrup In fearlessness and glee, Or dance, till finches chirrup, And stars sink to the sea.

Forth, Love, and find this maid, Wherever she be hidden: Speak, Love, be not afraid, But plead as thou art bidden; And say, that he who taught thee His yearning want and pain, Too dearly, dearly bought thee To part with thee in vain.

William Johnson-Cory [1823-1892]



THE SURFACE AND THE DEPTHS

Love took my life and thrilled it Through all its strings, Played round my mind and filled it With sound of wings; But to my heart he never came To touch it with his golden flame.

Therefore it is that singing I do rejoice, Nor heed the slow years bringing A harsher voice; Because the songs which he has sung Still leave the untouched singer young.

But whom in fuller fashion The Master sways, For him, swift-winged with passion, Fleet the brief days. Betimes the enforced accents come, And leave him ever after dumb.

Lewis Morris [1833-1907]



A BALLAD OF DREAMLAND

I hid my heart in a nest of roses, Out of the sun's way, hidden apart; In a softer bed then the soft white snow's is, Under the roses I hid my heart. Why would it sleep not? why should it start, When never a leaf of the rose-tree stirred? What made sleep flutter his wings and part? Only the song of a secret bird.

Lie still, I said, for the wind's wing closes, And mild leaves muffle the keen sun's dart; Lie still, for the wind on the warm seas dozes, And the wind is unquieter yet than thou art. Does a thought in thee still as a thorn's wound smart? Does the fang still fret thee of hope deferred? What bids the lips of thy sleep dispart? Only the song of a secret bird.

The green land's name that a charm encloses, It never was writ in the traveller's chart, And sweet on its trees as the fruit that grows is, It never was sold in the merchant's mart. The swallows of dreams through its dim fields dart, And sleep's are the tunes in its tree-tops heard; No hound's note wakens the wildwood hart, Only the song of a secret bird.

ENVOI In the world of dreams I have chosen my part, To sleep for a season and hear no word Of true love's truth or of light love's art, Only the song of a secret bird.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]



ENDYMION

The rising moon has hid the stars; Her level rays, like golden bars, Lie on the landscape green, With shadows brown between.

And silver white the river gleams, As if Diana, in her dreams Had dropped her silver bow Upon the meadows low.

On such a tranquil night as this, She woke Endymion with a kiss, When, sleeping in the grove, He dreamed not of her love.

Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought, Love gives itself, but is not bought; Nor voice, nor sound betrays Its deep, impassioned gaze.

It comes,—the beautiful, the free, The crown of all humanity,— In silence and alone To seek the elected one.

It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep Are life's oblivion, the soul's sleep, And kisses the closed eyes Of him who slumbering lies.

O weary hearts! O slumbering eyes! O drooping souls, whose destinies Are fraught with fear and pain, Ye shall be loved again!

No one is so accursed by fate, No one so utterly desolate, But some heart, though unknown, Responds unto his own.

Responds,—as if with unseen wings, An angel touched its quivering strings; And whispers, in its song, "Where hast thou stayed so long?"

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882]



FATE

Two shall be born, the whole wide world apart, And speak in different tongues and have no thought Each of the other's being, and no heed. And these, o'er unknown seas, to unknown lands Shall cross, escaping wreck, defying death; And all unconsciously shape every act And bend each wandering step to this one end— That, one day, out of darkness they shall meet And read life's meaning in each other's eyes.

And two shall walk some narrow way of life So nearly side by side that, should one turn Ever so little space to left or right, They needs must stand acknowledged, face to face. And, yet, with wistful eyes that never meet And groping hands that never clasp and lips Calling in vain to ears that never hear, They seek each other all their weary days And die unsatisfied—and this is Fate!

Susan Marr Spalding [1841-1908]



"GIVE ALL TO LOVE"

Give all to love; Obey thy heart; Friends, kindred, days, Estate, good fame, Plans, credit, and the Muse,— Nothing refuse.

'Tis a brave master; Let it have scope: Follow it utterly, Hope beyond hope: High and more high It dives into noon, With wing unspent, Untold intent; But it is a god, Knows its own path And the outlets of the sky.

It was never for the mean; It requireth courage stout. Souls above doubt, Valor unbending, It will reward,— They shall return More than they were, And ever ascending.

Leave all for love; Yet, hear me, yet, One word more thy heart behoved, One pulse more of firm endeavor,— Keep thee to-day, To-morrow, forever, Free as an Arab Of thy beloved.

Cling with life to the maid; But when the surprise, First vague shadow of surmise, Flits across her bosom young, Of a joy apart from thee, Free be she, fancy-free; Nor thou detain her vesture's hem, Nor the palest rose she flung From her summer diadem.

Though thou loved her as thyself, As a self of purer clay, Though her parting dims the day, Stealing grace from all alive; Heartily know, When half-gods go, The gods arrive.

Ralph Waldo Emerson [1803-1882]



"O, LOVE IS NOT A SUMMER MOOD"

O, love is not a summer mood, Nor flying phantom of the brain, Nor youthful fever of the blood, Nor dream, nor fate, nor circumstance. Love is not born of blinded chance, Nor bred in simple ignorance.

Love is the flower of maidenhood; Love is the fruit of mortal pain; And she hath winter in her blood. True love is steadfast as the skies, And once alight, she never flies; And love is strong, and love is wise.

Richard Watson Gilder [1844-1909]



WHEN WILL LOVE COME?

Some find Love late, some find him soon, Some with the rose in May, Some with the nightingale in June, And some when skies are gray; Love comes to some with smiling eyes, And comes with tears to some; For some Love sings, for some Love sighs, For some Love's lips are dumb.

How will you come to me, fair Love? Will you come late or soon? With sad or smiling skies above, By light of sun or moon? Will you be sad, will you be sweet, Sing, sigh, Love, or be dumb? Will it be summer when we meet, Or autumn ere you come?

Pakenham Beatty [1855-



"AWAKE, MY HEART"

Awake, my heart, to be loved, awake, awake! The darkness silvers away, the morn doth break, It leaps in the sky: unrisen lustres slake The o'ertaken moon. Awake, O heart, awake!

She too that loveth awaketh and hopes for thee: Her eyes already have sped the shades that flee, Already they watch the path thy feet shall take: Awake, O heart, to be loved, awake, awake!

And if thou tarry from her,—if this could be,— She cometh herself, O heart, to be loved, to thee; For thee would unashamed herself forsake: Awake, to be loved, my heart, awake, awake!

Awake! The land is scattered with light, and see, Uncanopied sleep is flying from field and tree; And blossoming boughs of April in laughter shake: Awake, O heart, to be loved, awake, awake!

Lo, all things wake and tarry and look for thee: She looketh and saith, "O sun, now bring him to me. Come, more adored, O adored, for his coming's sake, And awake, my heart, to be loved, awake, awake!"

Robert Bridges [1844-1930]



THE SECRET

Nightingales warble about it All night under blossom and star; The wild swan is dying without it, And the eagle crieth afar; The sun, he doth mount but to find it, Searching the green earth o'er; But more doth a man's heart mind it— O more, more, more!

Over the gray leagues of ocean The infinite yearneth alone; The forests with wandering emotion The thing they know not intone; Creation arose but to see it, A million lamps in the blue; But a lover, he shall be it, If one sweet maid is true.

George Edward Woodberry [1855-1930]



THE ROSE OF STARS

When Love, our great Immortal, Put on mortality, And down from Eden's portal Brought this sweet life to be, At the sublime archangel He laughed with veiled eyes, For he bore within his bosom The seed of Paradise.

He hid it in his bosom, And there such warmth it found, It brake in bud and blossom And the rose fell on the ground; As the green light on the prairie, As the red light on the sea, Through fragrant belts of summer Came this sweet life to be.

And the grave archangel seeing, Spread his mighty wings for flight, But the glow hung round him fleeing Like the rose of an Arctic night; And sadly moving heavenward By Venus and by Mars, He heard the joyful planets Hail Earth, the Rose of Stars.

George Edward Woodberry [1855-1930]



SONG OF EROS From "Agathon"

When love in the faint heart trembles, And the eyes with tears are wet, O, tell me what resembles Thee, young Regret? Violets with dewdrops drooping, Lilies o'erfull of gold, Roses in June rains stooping, That weep for the cold, Are like thee, young Regret.

Bloom, violets, lilies, and roses! But what, young Desire, Like thee, when love discloses Thy heart of fire? The wild swan unreturning, The eagle alone with the sun, The long-winged storm-gulls burning Seaward when day is done, Are like thee, young Desire.

George Edward Woodberry [1855-1930]



LOVE IS STRONG

A viewless thing is the wind, But its strength is mightier far Than a phalanxed host in battle line, Than the limbs of a Samson are.

And a viewless thing is Love, And a name that vanisheth; But her strength is the wind's wild strength above, For she conquers shame and Death.

Richard Burton [1861-



"LOVE ONCE WAS LIKE AN APRIL DAWN"

Love once was like an April dawn: Song throbbed within the heart by rote, And every tint of rose or fawn Was greeted by a joyous note. How eager was my thought to see Into that morning mystery!

Love now is like an August noon, No spot is empty of its shine; The sun makes silence seem a boon, And not a voice so dumb as mine. Yet with what words I'd welcome thee— Couldst thou return, dear mystery!

Robert Underwood Johnson [1853-



THE GARDEN OF SHADOW

Love heeds no more the sighing of the wind Against the perfect flowers: thy garden's close Is grown a wilderness, where none shall find One strayed, last petal of one last year's rose.

O bright, bright hair! O mouth like a ripe fruit! Can famine be so nigh to harvesting? Love, that was songful, with a broken lute In grass of graveyards goeth murmuring.

Let the wind blow against the perfect flowers, And all thy garden change and glow with spring: Love is grown blind with no more count of hours Nor part in seed-time nor in harvesting.

Ernest Dowson [1867-1900]



THE CALL

Love comes laughing up the valleys, Hand in hand with hoyden Spring; All the Flower-People nodding, All the Feathered-Folk a-wing.

"Higher! Higher!" call the thrushes; "Wilder! Freer!" breathe the trees; And the purple mountains beckon Upward to their mysteries.

Always farther leagues to wander, Peak to peak and slope to slope; Lips to sing and feet to follow, Eyes to dream and heart to hope!

Tarry? Nay, but who can tarry? All the world is on the wing; Love comes laughing up the valleys, Hand in hand with hoyden Spring.

Reginald Wright Kauffman [1877-



THE HIGHWAY

All day long on the highway The King's fleet couriers ride; You may hear the tread of their horses sped Over the country side. They ride for life and they ride for death And they override who tarrieth. With show of color and flush of pride They stir the dust on the highway.

Let them ride on the highway wide. Love walks in little paths aside.

All day long on the highway Is a tramp of an army's feet; You may see them go in a marshaled row With the tale of their arms complete: They march for war and they march for peace, For the lust of gold and fame's increase, For victories sadder than defeat They raise the dust on the highway.

All the armies of earth defied, Love dwells in little paths aside.

All day long on the highway Rushes an eager band, With straining eyes for a worthless prize That slips from the grasp like sand. And men leave blood where their feet have stood And bow them down unto brass and wood— Idols fashioned by their own hand— Blind in the dust of the highway.

Power and gold and fame denied, Love laughs glad in the paths aside.

Louise Driscoll [1875-



SONG

Take it, love! 'Twill soon be over, With the thickening of the clover, With the calling of the plover, Take it, take it, lover.

Take it, boy! The blossom's falling, And the farewell cuckoo's calling, While the sun and showers are one, Take your love out in the sun.

Take it, girl! And fear no after, Take your fill of all this laughter, Laugh or not, the tears will fall, Take the laughter first of all.

Richard Le Gallienne [1866-



"NEVER GIVE ALL THE HEART"

Never give all the heart, for love Will hardly seem worth thinking of To passionate women, if it seem Certain, and they never dream That it fades out from kiss to kiss; For everything that's lovely is But a brief, dreamy, kind delight. O never give the heart outright For they, for all smooth lips can say, Have given their hearts up to the play, And who can play it well enough If deaf and dumb and blind with love? He that made this knows all the cost, For he gave all his heart and lost.

William Butler Yeats [1865-



SONG

I came to the door of the House of Love And knocked as the starry night went by; And my true love cried "Who knocks?" and I said "It is I."

And Love looked down from a lattice above Where the roses were dry as the lips of the dead: "There is not room in the House of Love For you both," he said.

I plucked a leaf from the porch and crept Away through a desert of scoffs and scorns To a lonely place where I prayed and wept And wove me a crown of thorns.

I came once more to the House of Love And knocked, ah, softly and wistfully, And my true love cried "Who knocks?" and I said "None now but thee."

And the great doors opened wide apart And a voice rang out from a glory of light, "Make room, make room for a faithful heart In the House of Love, to-night."

Alfred Noyes [1880-



"CHILD, CHILD"

Child, child, love while you can The voice and the eyes and the soul of a man, Never fear though it break your heart— Out of the wound new joy will start; Only love proudly and gladly and well Though love be heaven or love be hell.

Child, child, love while you may, For life is short as a happy day; Never fear the thing you feel— Only by love is life made real; Love, for the deadly sins are seven, Only through love will you enter heaven.

Sara Teasdale [1884-1933]



WISDOM

The young girl questions: "Whether were it better To lie for ever, a warm slug-a-bed, Or to rise up and bide by Fate and Chance, The rawness of the morning, The gibing and the scorning Of the stern Teacher of my ignorance?" "I know not," Wisdom said.

The young girl questions: "Friend, shall I die calmer, If I've lain for ever, sheets above the head, Warm in a dream, or rise to take the worst Of peril in the highways Of straying in the by-ways, Of hunger for the truth, of drought and thirst?" "We do not know," he said, "Nor may till we be dead."

Ford Madox Ford [1873-



EPILOGUE From "Emblems Of Love"

What shall we do for Love these days? How shall we make an altar-blaze To smite the horny eyes of men With the renown of our Heaven, And to the unbelievers prove Our service to our dear god, Love? What torches shall we lift above The crowd that pushes through the mire, To amaze the dark heads with strange fire? I should think I were much to blame, If never I held some fragrant flame Above the noises of the world, And openly 'mid men's hurrying stares, Worshipped before the sacred fears That are like flashing curtains furled Across the presence of our lord Love. Nay, would that I could fill the gaze Of the whole earth with some great praise Made in a marvel for men's eyes, Some tower of glittering masonries, Therein such a spirit flourishing Men should see what my heart can sing: All that Love hath done to me Built into stone, a visible glee; Marble carried to gleaming height As moved aloft by inward delight; Not as with toil of chisels hewn, But seeming poised in a mighty tune. For of all those who have been known To lodge with our kind host, the sun, I envy one for just one thing: In Cordova of the Moors There dwelt a passion-minded King, Who set great bands of marble-hewers To fashion his heart's thanksgiving In a tall palace, shapen so All the wondering world might know The joy he had of his Moorish lass. His love, that brighter and larger was Than the starry places, into firm stone He sent, as if the stone were glass Fired and into beauty blown. Solemn and invented gravely In its bulk the fabric stood, Even as Love, that trusteth bravely In its own exceeding good To be better than the waste Of time's devices; grandly spaced, Seriously the fabric stood. But over it all a pleasure went Of carven delicate ornament, Wreathing up like ravishment, Mentioning in sculptures twined The blitheness Love hath in his mind; And like delighted senses were The windows, and the columns there Made the following sight to ache As the heart that did them make. Well I can see that shining song Flowering there, the upward throng Of porches, pillars and windowed walls, Spires like piercing panpipe calls, Up to the roof's snow-cloud flight; All glancing in the Spanish light White as water of arctic tides, Save an amber dazzle on sunny sides. You had said, the radiant sheen Of that palace might have been A young god's fantasy, ere he came His serious worlds and suns to frame; Such an immortal passion Quivered among the slim hewn stone. And in the nights it seemed a jar Cut in the substance of a star, Wherein a wine, that will be poured Some time for feasting Heaven, was stored. But within this fretted shell, The wonder of Love made visible, The King a private gentle mood There placed, of pleasant quietude. For right amidst there was a court, Where always musked silences Listened to water and to trees; And herbage of all fragrant sort,— Lavender, lad's-love, rosemary, Basil, tansy, centaury,— Was the grass of that orchard, hid Love's amazements all amid. Jarring the air with rumor cool, Small fountains played into a pool With sound as soft as the barley's hiss When its beard just sprouting is; Whence a young stream, that trod on moss, Prettily rimpled the court across. And in the pool's clear idleness, Moving like dreams through happiness, Shoals of small bright fishes were; In and out weed-thickets bent Perch and carp, and sauntering went With mounching jaws and eyes a-stare; Or on a lotus leaf would crawl A brindled loach to bask and sprawl, Tasting the warm sun ere it dipped Into the water; but quick as fear Back his shining brown head slipped To crouch on the gravel of his lair, Where the cooled sunbeams, broke in wrack, Spilt shattered gold about his back. So within that green-veiled air, Within that white-walled quiet, where Innocent water thought aloud,— Childish prattle that must make The wise sunlight with laughter shake On the leafage overbowed,— Often the King and his love-lass Let the delicious hours pass. All the outer world could see Graved and sawn amazingly Their love's delighted riotise, Fixed in marble for all men's eyes; But only these twain could abide In the cool peace that withinside Thrilling desire and passion dwelt; They only knew the still meaning spelt By Love's flaming script, which is God's word written in ecstasies. And where is now that palace gone, All the magical skilled stone, All the dreaming towers wrought By Love as if no more than thought The unresisting marble was? How could such a wonder pass? Ah, it was but built in vain Against the stupid horns of Rome, That pushed down into the common loam The loveliness that shone in Spain. But we have raised it up again! A loftier palace, fairer far, Is ours, and one that fears no war. Safe in marvellous walls we are; Wondering sense like builded fires, High amazement of desires, Delight and certainty of love, Closing around, roofing above Our unapproached and perfect hour Within the splendors of love's power.

Lascelles Abercrombie [1881-



ON HAMPSTEAD HEATH

Against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree, His scarlet tunic burns; And livelier than the green sap's mantling glee The Spring fire tingles through him headily As quivering he turns And stammers out the old amazing tale Of youth and April weather; While she, with half-breathed jests that, sobbing, fail, Sits, tight-lipped, quaking, eager-eyed and pale, Beneath her purple feather.

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson [1878-



ONCE ON A TIME

Once on a time, once on a time, Before the Dawn began, There was a nymph of Dian's train Who was beloved of Pan; Once on a time a peasant lad Who loved a lass at home; Once on a time a Saxon king Who loved a queen of Rome.

The world has but one song to sing, And it is ever new, The first and last of all the songs For it is ever true— A little song, a tender song, The only song it hath; "There was a youth of Ascalon Who loved a girl of Gath."

A thousand thousand years have gone, And aeons still shall pass, Yet shall the world forever sing Of him who loved a lass— An olden song, a golden song, And sing it unafraid: "There was a youth, once on a time, Who dearly loved a maid."

Kendall Banning [1879-



IN PRAISE OF HER



FIRST SONG From "Astrophel and Stella"

Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes intendeth, Which now my breast, o'ercharged, to music lendeth? To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only in you my song begins and endeth.

Who hath the eyes which marry state with pleasure? Who keeps the key of Nature's chiefest treasure? To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only for you the heaven forgat all measure.

Who hath the lips where wit in fairness reigneth? Who womankind at once both decks and staineth? To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only by you Cupid his crown maintaineth.

Who hath the feet, whose step all sweetness planteth? Who else, for whom Fame worthy trumpets wanteth? To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only to you her sceptre Venus granteth.

Who hath the breast, whose milk doth passions nourish? Whose grace is such, that when it chides doth cherish? To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only through you the tree of life doth flourish.

Who hath the hand, which without stroke subdueth? Who long-dead beauty with increase reneweth? To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only at you all envy hopeless rueth.

Who hath the hair, which loosest fastest tieth? Who makes a man live then glad when he dieth? To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only of you the flatterer never lieth.

Who hath the voice, which soul from senses sunders? Whose force but yours the bolts of beauty thunders? To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only with you not miracles are wonders.

Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes intendeth, Which now my breast, o'ercharged, to music lendeth? To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only in you my song begins and endeth.

Philip Sidney [1554-1586]



SILVIA From "The Two Gentlemen of Verona"

Who is Silvia? What is she? That all our swains commend her? Holy, fair, and wise is she; The heaven such grace did lend her, That she might admired be.

Is she kind as she is fair? For beauty lives with kindness: Love doth to her eyes repair, To help him of his blindness; And, being helped, inhabits there.

Then to Silvia let us sing, That Silvia is excelling; She excels each mortal thing Upon the dull earth dwelling: To her let us garlands bring.

William Shakespeare [1564-1616]



CUPID AND CAMPASPE From "Alexander and Campaspe"

Cupid and my Campaspe played At cards for kisses; Cupid paid: He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows, His mother's doves, and team of sparrows; Loses them too; then down he throws The coral of his lip, the rose Growing on's cheek (but none knows how); With these, the crystal of his brow, And then the dimple on his chin; All these did my Campaspe win: And last he set her both his eyes— She won, and Cupid blind did rise. O Love! has she done this to thee? What shall, alas! become of me?

John Lyly [1554?-1606]



APOLLO'S SONG From "Midas"

My Daphne's hair is twisted gold, Bright stars apiece her eyes do hold, My Daphne's brow enthrones the Graces, My Daphne's beauty stains all faces, On Daphne's cheek grow rose and cherry, On Daphne's lip a sweeter berry, Daphne's snowy hand but touched does melt, And then no heavenlier warmth is felt, My Daphne's voice tunes all the spheres, My Daphne's music charms all ears. Fond am I thus to sing her praise; These glories now are turned to bays.

John Lyly [1554?-1606]



"FAIR IS MY LOVE FOR APRIL'S IN HER FACE" From "Perimedes"

Fair is my love for April's in her face, Her lovely breasts September claims his part, And lordly July in her eyes takes place, But cold December dwelleth in her heart; Blest be the months that set my thoughts on fire, Accurst that month that hindereth my desire.

Like Phoebus' fire, so sparkle both her eyes, As air perfumed with amber is her breath, Like swelling waves her lovely breasts do rise, As earth, her heart, cold, dateth me to death: Aye me, poor man, that on the earth do live, When unkind earth death and despair doth give!

In pomp sits mercy seated in her face, Love 'twixt her breasts his trophies doth imprint, Her eyes shine favor, courtesy, and grace, But touch her heart, ah, that is framed of flint! Therefore my harvest in the grass bears grain; The rock will wear, washed with a winter's rain.

Robert Greene [1560?-1592]



SAMELA From "Menaphon"

Like to Diana in her summer weed, Girt with a crimson robe of brightest dye, Goes fair Samela; Whiter than be the flocks that straggling feed, When washed by Arethusa's Fount they lie, Is fair Samela.

As fair Aurora in her morning-gray, Decked with the ruddy glister of her love, Is fair Samela; Like lovely Thetis on a calmed day, Whenas her brightness Neptune's fancy move, Shines fair Samela.

Her tresses gold, her eyes like glassy streams, Her teeth are pearl, the breasts are ivory Of fair Samela; Her cheeks like rose and lily yield forth gleams; Her brows bright arches framed of ebony: Thus fair Samela

Passeth fair Venus in her bravest hue, And Juno in the show of majesty, For she's Samela; Pallas, in wit,—all three, if you well view, For beauty, wit, and matchless dignity Yield to Samela.

Robert Greene [1560?-1592]



DAMELUS' SONG OF HIS DIAPHENIA

Diaphenia like the daffadowndilly, White as the sun, fair as the lily, Heigh ho, how I do love thee! I do love thee as my lambs Are beloved of their dams;— How blest were I if thou would'st prove me.

Diaphenia like the spreading roses, That in thy sweets all sweets encloses, Fair sweet, how I do love thee! I do love thee as each flower Loves the sun's life-giving power; For dead, thy breath to life might move me.

Diaphenia like to all things blessed, When all thy praises are expressed, Dear joy, how I do love thee! As the birds do love the spring, Or the bees their careful king: Then in requite, sweet virgin, love me!

Henry Constable [1562-1613]



MADRIGAL

My love in her attire doth show her wit, It doth so well become her; For every season she hath dressings fit, For Winter, Spring, and Summer.

No beauty she doth miss When all her robes are on: But Beauty's self she is When all her robes are gone.

Unknown



ON CHLORIS WALKING IN THE SNOW

I saw fair Chloris walk alone, Whilst feathered rain came softly down, As Jove descended from his tower To court her in a silver shower. The wanton snow flew on her breast Like little birds unto their nest, But, overcome with whiteness there, For grief it thawed into a tear; Thence falling on her garment's hem, To deck her, froze into a gem.

William Strode [1602-1645]



"THERE IS A LADY SWEET AND KIND"

There is a lady sweet and kind, Was never face so pleased my mind; I did but see her passing by, And yet I love her till I die.

Her gesture, motion, and her smiles, Her wit, her voice my heart beguiles, Beguiles my heart, I know not why, And yet I love her till I die.

Cupid is winged and doth range, Her country so my love doth change: But change she earth, or change she sky, Yet I will love her till I die.

Unknown



CHERRY-RIPE

There is a garden in her face Where roses and white lilies blow; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow: There cherries grow which none may buy Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do enclose Of orient pearl a double row, Which when her lovely laughter shows, They look like rose-buds filled with snow; Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still; Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threatening with piercing frowns to kill All that attempt with eye or hand Those sacred cherries to come nigh, Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry.

Thomas Campion [?—1619]



AMARILLIS

I care not for these ladies, That must be wooed and prayed: Give me kind Amarillis, The wanton countrymaid. Nature art disdaineth, Her beauty is her own. Her when we court and kiss, She cries, Forsooth, let go! But when we come where comfort is, She never will say No.

If I love Amarillis, She gives me fruit and flowers: But if we love these ladies, We must give golden showers. Give them gold, that sell love, Give me the Nut-brown lass, Who, when we court and kiss, She cries, Forsooth, let go: But when we come where comfort is, She never will say No.

These ladies must have pillows, And beds by strangers wrought; Give me a bower of willows, Of moss and leaves unbought, And fresh Amarillis, With milk and honey fed; Who, when we court and kiss, She cries, Forsooth, let go: But when we come where comfort is, She never will say No!

Thomas Campion [?—1619]



ELIZABETH OF BOHEMIA

You meaner beauties of the night, That poorly satisfy our eyes More by your number than your light, You common people of the skies; What are you when the moon shall rise?

You curious chanters of the wood, That warble forth Dame Nature's lays, Thinking your passions understood By your weak accents; what's your praise When Philomel her voice shall raise?

You violets that first appear, By your pure purple mantles known Like the proud virgins of the year, As if the spring were all your own; What are you when the rose is blown?

So, when my mistress shall be seen In form and beauty of her mind, By virtue first, then choice, a Queen, Tell me, if she were not designed Th' eclipse and glory of her kind.

Henry Walton [1568-1639]



HER TRIUMPH From "A Celebration of Charis"

See the Chariot at hand here of Love, Wherein my Lady rideth! Each that draws is a swan or a dove, And well the car Love guideth. As she goes, all hearts do duty Unto her beauty; And, enamored, do wish, so they might But enjoy such a sight, That they still were to run by her side, Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.

Do but look on her eyes, they do light All that Love's world compriseth! Do but look on her hair, it is bright As Love's star when it riseth! Do but mark, her forehead's smoother Than Words that soothe her! And from her arched brows such a grace Sheds itself through the face, As alone there triumphs to the life All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife.

Have you seen but a bright lily grow Before rude hands have touched it? Have you marked but the fall o' the snow Before the soil hath smutched it? Have you felt the wool of beaver, Or swan's down ever? Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier? Or the nard in the fire? Or have tasted the bag o' the bee? O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she!

Ben Jonson [1573?-1637]



OF PHYLLIS

In petticoat of green, Her hair about her eyne, Phyllis beneath an oak Sat milking her fair flock: Among that sweet-strained moisture, rare delight, Her hand seemed milk in milk, it was so white.

William Drummond [1585-1649]



A WELCOME

Welcome, welcome, do I sing, Far more welcome than the spring; He that parteth from you never Shall enjoy a spring forever.

He that to the voice is near, Breaking from your ivory pale, Need not walk abroad to hear The delightful nightingale.

He that looks still on your eyes, Though the winter have begun To benumb our arteries, Shall not want the summer's sun.

He that still may see your cheeks, Where all rareness still reposes, Is a fool if e'er he seeks Other lilies, other roses.

He to whom your soft lip yields, And perceives your breath in kissing, All the odors of the fields Never, never shall be missing.

He that question would anew What fair Eden was of old, Let him rightly study you, And a brief of that behold.

Welcome, welcome, then I sing, Far more welcome than the spring; He that parteth from you never, Shall enjoy a spring forever.

William Browne [1591-1643?]



THE COMPLETE LOVER

For her gait, if she be walking; Be she sitting, I desire her For her state's sake; and admire her For her wit if she be talking; Gait and state and wit approve her; For which all and each I love her.

Be she sullen, I commend her For a modest. Be she merry, For a kind one her prefer I. Briefly, everything doth lend her So much grace, and so approve her, That for everything I love her.

William Browne [1591-1643?]



RUBIES AND PEARLS

Some asked me where the rubies grew, And nothing I did say, But with my finger pointed to The lips of Julia.

Some asked how pearls did grow, and where; Then spoke I to my girl, To part her lips, and showed them there The quarrelets of pearl.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]



UPON JULIA'S CLOTHES

Whenas in silks my Julia goes, Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows The liquefaction of her clothes! Next, when I cast mine eyes and see That brave vibration each way free, —O how that glittering taketh me!

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]



TO CYNTHIA ON CONCEALMENT OF HER BEAUTY

Do not conceal those radiant eyes, The starlight of serenest skies; Lest, wanting of their heavenly light, They turn to chaos' endless night!

Do not conceal those tresses fair, The silken snares of thy curled hair; Lest, finding neither gold nor ore, The curious silk-worm work no more.

Do not conceal those breasts of thine, More snow-white than the Apennine; Lest, if there be like cold and frost, The lily be for ever lost.

Do not conceal that fragrant scent, Thy breath, which to all flowers hath lent Perfumes; lest, it being suppressed, No spices grow in all the East.

Do not conceal thy heavenly voice, Which makes the hearts of gods rejoice; Lest, music hearing no such thing, The nightingale forget to sing.

Do not conceal, nor yet eclipse, Thy pearly teeth with coral lips; Lest that the seas cease to bring forth Gems which from thee have all their worth.

Do not conceal no beauty, grace, That's either in thy mind or face; Lest virtue overcome by vice Make men believe no Paradise.

Francis Kynaston [1587-1642]



SONG

Ask me no more where Jove bestows, When June is past, the fading rose; For in your beauty's orient deep These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.

Ask me no more whither do stray The golden atoms of the day; For in pure love heaven did prepare Those powders to enrich your hair.

Ask me no more whither doth haste The nightingale when May is past; For in your sweet dividing throat She winters and keeps warm her note.

Ask me no more where those stars 'light That downwards fall in dead of night; For in your eyes they sit, and there Fixed become as in their sphere.

Ask me no more if east or west The Phoenix builds her spicy nest; For unto you at last she flies, And in your fragrant bosom dies.

Thomas Carew [1598?-1639?]



A DEVOUT LOVER

I have a mistress, for perfections rare In every eye, but in my thoughts most fair. Like tapers on the altar shine her eyes; Her breath is the perfume of sacrifice; And wheresoe'er my fancy would begin, Still her perfection lets religion in. We sit and talk, and kiss away the hours As chastely as the morning dews kiss flowers: I touch her, like my beads, with devout care, And come unto my courtship as my prayer.

Thomas Randolph [1605-1635]



ON A GIRDLE

That which her slender waist confined Shall now my joyful temples bind; No monarch but would give his crown His arms might do what this has done.

It was my Heaven's extremest sphere, The pale which held that lovely deer: My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, Did all within this circle move.

A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair! Give me but what this ribbon bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round!

Edmund Waller [1606-1687]



CASTARA

Like the violet, which alone Prospers in some happy shade, My Castara lives unknown, To no looser eye betrayed: For she's to herself untrue Who delights i' the public view

Such is her beauty as no arts Have enriched with borrowed grace. Her high birth no pride imparts, For she blushes in her place. Folly boasts a glorious blood; She is noblest, being good.

Cautious, she knew never yet What a wanton courtship meant; Nor speaks loud to boast her wit, In her silence, eloquent. Of herself survey she takes, But 'tween men no difference makes.

She obeys with speedy will Her grave parents' wise commands; And so innocent, that ill She nor acts, nor understands. Women's feet run still astray If to ill they know the way.

She sails by that rock, the court, Where oft virtue splits her mast; And retiredness thinks the port Where her fame may anchor cast. Virtue safely cannot sit Where vice is enthroned for wit.

She holds that day's pleasure best Where sin waits not on delight; Without mask, or ball, or feast, Sweetly spends a winter's night. O'er that darkness whence is thrust Prayer and sleep, oft governs lust.

She her throne makes reason climb, While wild passions captive lie; And, each article of time, Her pure thoughts to heaven fly; All her vows religious be, And she vows her love to me.

William Habington [1605-1654]



TO ARAMANTHA That She Would Dishevel Her Hair

Aramantha, sweet and fair, Ah, braid no more that shining hair! As my curious hand or eye Hovering round thee, let it fly.

Let it fly as unconfined As its calm ravisher the wind, Who hath left his darling, th' east, To wanton in that spicy nest.

Every tress must be confessed; But neatly tangled at the best; Like a clew of golden thread Most excellently ravelled.

Do not, then, wind up that light In ribbons, and o'er-cloud in night, Like the sun in's early ray; But shake your head and scatter day.

Richard Lovelace [1618-1658]



CHLOE DIVINE

Chloe's a Nymph in flowery groves, A Nereid in the streams; Saint-like she in the temple moves, A woman in my dreams.

Love steals artillery from her eyes, The Graces point her charms; Orpheus is rivalled in her voice, And Venus in her arms.

Never so happily in one Did heaven and earth combine; And yet 'tis flesh and blood alone That makes her so divine.

Thomas D'Urfey [1653-1723]



MY PEGGY

My Peggy is a young thing, Just entered in her teens, Fair as the day, and sweet as May, Fair as the day, and always gay: My Peggy is a young thing, And I'm na very auld, Yet weel I like to meet her at The wauking o' the fauld.

My Peggy speaks sae sweetly Whene'er we meet alane, I wish nae mair to lay my care, I wish nae mair o' a' that's rare: My Peggy speaks sae sweetly, To a' the lave I'm cauld; But she gars a' my spirits glow At wauking o' the fauld.

My Peggy smiles sae kindly Whene'er I whisper love, That I look doun on a' the toun, That I look doun upon a croun: My Peggy smiles sae kindly, It makes me blithe and bauld, And naething gi'es me sic delight As waulking o' the fauld.

My Peggy sings sae saftly, When on my pipe I play; By a' the rest it is confessed, By a' the rest that she sings best: My Peggy sings sae saftly, And in her sangs are tauld, Wi' innocence the wale o' sense, At wauking o' the fauld.

Allan Ramsay [1686-1758]



SONG From "Acis and Galatea"

O ruddier than the cherry! O sweeter than the berry! O nymph more bright Than moonshine night, Like kidlings blithe and merry! Ripe as the melting luster; Yet hard to tame As raging flame, And fierce as storms that bluster!

John Gay [1685-1732]



"TELL ME, MY HEART, IF THIS BE LOVE"

When Delia on the plain appears, Awed by a thousand tender fears I would approach, but dare not move: Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

Whene'er she speaks, my ravished ear No other voice than hers can hear, No other wit but hers approve: Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

If she some other youth commend, Though I was once his fondest friend, His instant enemy I prove: Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

When she is absent, I no more Delight in all that pleased before— The clearest spring, or shadiest grove: Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

When fond of power, of beauty vain, Her nets she spread for every swain, I strove to hate, but vainly strove: Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

George Lyttleton [1709-1773]



THE FAIR THIEF

Before the urchin well could go, She stole the whiteness of the snow; And more, that whiteness to adorn, She stole the blushes of the morn; Stole all the sweetness ether sheds On primrose buds and violet beds.

Still to reveal her artful wiles She stole the Graces' silken smiles; She stole Aurora's balmy breath; And pilfered orient pearl for teeth; The cherry, dipped in morning dew, Gave moisture to her lips, and hue.

These were her infant spoils, a store; And she, in time, still pilfered more! At twelve, she stole from Cyprus' queen Her air and love-commanding mien; Stole Juno's dignity; and stole From Pallas sense to charm the soul.

Apollo's wit was next her prey; Her next, the beam that lights the day; She sang;—amazed the Sirens heard, And to assert their voice appeared. She played;—the Muses from their hill, Wondered who thus had stole their skill.

Great Jove approved her crimes and art; And, t'other day, she stole my heart! If lovers, Cupid, are thy care, Exert thy vengeance on this Fair: To trial bring her stolen charms, And let her prison be my arms!

Charles Wyndham [1710-1763]



AMORET

If rightly tuneful bards decide, If it be fixed in Love's decrees, That Beauty ought not to be tried But by its native power to please, Then tell me, youths and lovers, tell— What fair can Amoret excel?

Behold that bright unsullied smile, And wisdom speaking in her mien: Yet—she so artless all the while, So little studious to be seen— We naught but instant gladness know, Nor think to whom the gift we owe.

But neither music, nor the powers Of youth and mirth and frolic cheer, Add half the sunshine to the hours, Or make life's prospect half so clear, As memory brings it to the eye From scenes where Amoret was by.

This, sure, is Beauty's happiest part; This gives the most unbounded sway; This shall enchant the subject heart When rose and lily fade away; And she be still, in spite of Time, Sweet Amoret, in all her prime.

Mark Akenside [1721-1770]



SONG

The shape alone let others prize, The features of the fair: I look for spirit in her eyes, And meaning in her air.

A damask cheek, an ivory arm, Shall ne'er my wishes win: Give me an animated form, That speaks a mind within.

A face where awful honor shines, Where sense and sweetness move, And angel innocence refines The tenderness of love.

These are the soul of beauty's frame; Without whose vital aid Unfinished all her features seem, And all her roses dead.

But ah! where both their charms unite, How perfect is the view, With every image of delight, With graces ever new:

Of power to charm the greatest woe, The wildest rage control, Diffusing mildness o'er the brow, And rapture through the soul.

Their power but faintly to express All language must despair; But go, behold Arpasia's face, And read it perfect there.

Mark Akenside [1721-1770]



KATE OF ABERDEEN

The silver moon's enamored beam Steals softly through the night, To wanton with the winding stream, And kiss reflected light. To beds of state go balmy sleep ('Tis where you've seldom been), May's vigil while the shepherds keep With Kate of Aberdeen.

Upon the green the virgins wait, In rosy chaplets gay, Till morn unbar her golden gate, And give the promised May. Methinks I hear the maids declare, The promised May, when seen, Not half so fragrant, half so fair, As Kate of Aberdeen.

Strike up the tabor's boldest notes, We'll rouse the nodding grove; The nested birds shall raise their throats, And hail the maid of love; And see—the matin lark mistakes, He quits the tufted green: Fond bird! 'tis not the morning breaks,— 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.

Now lightsome o'er the level mead, Where midnight fairies rove, Like them the jocund dance we'll lead, Or tune the reed to love: For see the rosy May draws nigh, She claims a virgin Queen; And hark, the happy shepherds cry, 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.

John Cunningham [1729-1773]



SONG

Who has robbed the ocean cave, To tinge thy lips with coral hue? Who from India's distant wave For thee those pearly treasures drew? Who from yonder orient sky Stole the morning of thine eye?

A thousand charms, thy form to deck, From sea, and earth, and air are torn; Roses bloom upon thy cheek, On thy breath their fragrance borne. Guard thy bosom from the day, Lest thy snows should melt away.

But one charm remains behind, Which mute earth can ne'er impart; Nor in ocean wilt thou find, Nor in the circling air, a heart. Fairest! wouldst thou perfect be, Take, oh, take that heart from me.

John Shaw [1559-1625]



CHLOE

It was the charming month of May, When all the flowers were fresh and gay; One morning, by the break of day, The youthful, charming Chloe From peaceful slumber she arose, Girt on her mantle and her hose, And o'er the flowery mead she goes, The youthful, charming Chloe. Lovely was she by the dawn, Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, The youthful, charming Chloe.

The feathered people you might see, Perched all around on every tree, In notes of sweetest melody They hail the charming Chloe; Till, painting gay the eastern skies, The glorious sun began to rise, Out-rivalled by the radiant eyes Of youthful, charming Chloe. Lovely was she by the dawn, Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, The youthful, charming Chloe.

Robert Burns [1759-1796]



"O MALLY'S MEEK, MALLY'S SWEET"

As I was walking up the street, A barefit maid I chanced to meet; But O the road was very hard For that fair maiden's tender feet. O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet, Mally's modest and discreet, Mally's rare, Mally's fair, Mally's every way complete.

It were more meet that those fine feet Were weel laced up in silken shoon, And 'twere more fit that she should sit Within yon chariot gilt aboon.

Her yellow hair, beyond compare, Comes trinkling down her swan-white neck, And her two eyes, like stars in skies, Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck. O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet, Mally's modest and discreet, Mally's rare, Mally's fair, Mally's every way complete.

Robert Burns [1759-1796]



THE LOVER'S CHOICE

You, Damon, covet to possess The nymph that sparkles in her dress; Would rustling silks and hoops invade, And clasp an armful of brocade.

Such raise the price of your delight Who purchase both their red and white, And, pirate-like, surprise your heart With colors of adulterate art.

Me, Damon, me the maid enchants Whose cheeks the hand of nature paints; A modest blush adorns her face, Her air an unaffected grace.

No art she knows, or seeks to know; No charm to wealthy pride will owe; No gems, no gold she needs to wear; She shines intrinsically fair.

Thomas Bedingfield [?—1613]



RONDEAU REDOUBLE

My day and night are in my lady's hand; I have no other sunrise than her sight; For me her favor glorifies the land; Her anger darkens all the cheerful light. Her face is fairer than the hawthorn white, When all a-flower in May the hedgerows stand; While she is kind, I know of no affright; My day and night are in my lady's hand.

All heaven in her glorious eyes is spanned; Her smile is softer than the summer's night, Gladder than daybreak on the Faery strand; I have no other sunrise than her sight. Her silver speech is like the singing flight Of runnels rippling o'er the jewelled sand; Her kiss a dream of delicate delight; For me her favor glorifies the land.

What if the Winter chase the Summer bland! The gold sun in her hair burns ever bright. If she be sad, straightway all joy is banned; Her anger darkens all the cheerful light. Come weal or woe, I am my lady's knight And in her service every ill withstand; Love is my Lord in all the world's despite And holdeth in the hollow of his hand My day and night.

John Payne [1842-1916]



"MY LOVE SHE'S BUT A LASSIE YET"

My love she's but a lassie yet, A lightsome lovely lassie yet; It scarce wad do To sit an' woo Down by the stream sae glassy yet.

But there's a braw time coming yet, When we may gang a-roaming yet; An' hint wi' glee O' joys to be, When fa's the modest gloaming yet.

She's neither proud nor saucy yet, She's neither plump nor gaucy yet; But just a jinking, Bonny blinking, Hilty-skilty lassie yet.

But O, her artless smile's mair sweet Than hinny or than marmalete; An' right or wrang, Ere it be lang, I'll bring her to a parley yet.

I'm jealous o' what blesses her, The very breeze that kisses her, The flowery beds On which she treads, Though wae for ane that misses her.

Then O, to meet my lassie yet, Up in yon glen sae grassy yet; For all I see Are naught to me, Save her that's but a lassie yet.

James Hogg [1770-1835]



JESSIE, THE FLOWER O' DUNBLANE

The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene, While lanely I stray, in the calm simmer gloamin', To muse on sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dunblane.

How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft fauldin' blossom, And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green; Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom, Is lovely young Jessie, the Flower o' Dunblane.

She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's bonnie; For guileless simplicity marks her its ain; And far be the villain, divested of feeling, Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet Flower o' Dunblane.

Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening! Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen; Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning, Is charming young Jessie, the Flower o' Dunblane.

How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie! The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain; I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie Till charmed wi' sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dunblane.

Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur, Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain, And reckon as naething the height o' its splendor, If wanting sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dunblane.

Robert Tannahill [1774-1810]



MARGARET AND DORA

Margaret's beauteous—Grecian arts Ne'er drew form completer, Yet why, in my hearts of hearts, Hold I Dora's sweeter?

Dora's eyes of heavenly blue Pass all painting's reach, Ringdoves' notes are discord to The music of her speech.

Artists! Margaret's smile receive, And on canvas show it; But for perfect worship leave Dora to her poet.

Thomas Campbell [1777-1844]



DAGONET'S CANZONET

A queen lived in the South; And music was her mouth, And sunshine was her hair, By day, and all the night The drowsy embers there Remembered still the light; My soul, was she not fair!

But for her eyes—they made An iron man afraid; Like sky-blue pools they were, Watching the sky that knew Itself transmuted there Light blue, or deeper blue; My soul, was she not fair!

The lifting of her hands Made laughter in the lands Where the sun is, in the South: But my soul learnt sorrow there In the secrets of her mouth, Her eyes, her hands, her hair: O soul, was she not fair!

Ernest Rhys [1859-



STANZAS FOR MUSIC

There be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like thee; And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing The charmed ocean's pausing, The waves lie still and gleaming, And the lulled winds seem dreaming.

And the midnight moon is weaving Her bright chain o'er the deep, Whose breast is gently heaving, As an infant's asleep: So the spirit bows before thee, To listen and adore thee; With a full but soft emotion, Like the swell of Summer's ocean.

George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]



"FLOWERS I WOULD BRING"

Flowers I would bring if flowers could make thee fairer, And music, if the Muse were dear to thee; (For loving these would make thee love the bearer) But sweetest songs forget their melody, And loveliest flowers would but conceal the wearer:— A rose I marked, and might have plucked; but she Blushed as she bent, imploring me to spare her, Nor spoil her beauty by such rivalry. Alas! and with what gifts shall I pursue thee, What offerings bring, what treasures lay before thee; When earth with all her floral train doth woo thee, And all old poets and old songs adore thee; And love to thee is naught; from passionate mood Secured by joy's complacent plenitude!

Aubrey Thomas de Vere [1814-1902]



"IT IS NOT BEAUTY I DEMAND"

It is not Beauty I demand, A crystal brow, the moon's despair, Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand, Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair:

Tell me not of your starry eyes, Your lips that seem on roses fed, Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed:—

A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours, A breath that softer music speaks Than summer winds a-wooing flowers,—

These are but gauds: nay, what are lips? Coral beneath the ocean-stream, Whose brink when your adventurer sips Full oft he perisheth on them.

And what are cheeks but ensigns oft That wave hot youth to fields of blood? Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft, Do Greece or Ilium any good?

Eyes can with baleful ardor burn; Poison can breathe, that erst perfumed; There's many a white hand holds an urn With lovers' hearts to dust consumed.

For crystal brows—there's naught within; They are but empty cells for pride; He who the Siren's hair would win Is mostly strangled in the tide.

Give me, instead of Beauty's bust, A tender heart, a loyal mind Which with temptation I could trust, Yet never linked with error find,—

One in whose gentle bosom I Could pour my secret heart of woes, Like the care-burthened honey-fly That hides his murmurs in the rose,—

My earthly Comforter! whose love So indefeasible might be That, when my spirit won above, Hers could not stay, for sympathy.

George Darley [1795-1846]



SONG

She is not fair to outward view As many maidens be, Her loveliness I never knew Until she smiled on me; Oh! then I saw her eye was bright, A well of love, a spring of light.

But now her looks are coy and cold, To mine they ne'er reply, And yet I cease not to behold The love-light in her eye: Her very frowns are fairer far Than smiles of other maidens are.

Hartley Coleridge [1796-1849]



SONG

A violet in her lovely hair, A rose upon her bosom fair! But O, her eyes A lovelier violet disclose, And her ripe lips the sweetest rose That's 'neath the skies.

A lute beneath her graceful hand Breathes music forth at her command; But still her tongue Far richer music calls to birth Than all the minstrel power on earth Can give to song.

And thus she moves in tender light, The purest ray, where all is bright, Serene, and sweet; And sheds a graceful influence round, That hallows e'en the very ground Beneath her feet!

Charles Swain [1801-1874]



EILEEN AROON

When like the early rose, Eileen Aroon! Beauty in childhood blows, Eileen Aroon! When, like a diadem, Buds blush around the stem, Which is the fairest gem?— Eileen Aroon!

Is it the laughing eye, Eileen Aroon! Is it the timid sigh, Eileen Aroon! Is it the tender tone, Soft as the stringed harp's moan? O, it is truth alone,— Eileen Aroon!

When like the rising day, Eileen Aroon! Love sends his early ray, Eileen Aroon! What makes his dawning glow, Changeless through joy or woe? Only the constant know:— Eileen Aroon!

I know a valley fair, Eileen Aroon! I knew a cottage there, Eileen Aroon! Far in that valley's shade I knew a gentle maid, Flower of a hazel glade,— Eileen Aroon!

Who in the song so sweet? Eileen Aroon! Who in the dance so fleet? Eileen Aroon! Dear were her charms to me Dearer her laughter free, Dearest her constancy,— Eileen Aroon!

Were she no longer true, Eileen Aroon! What should her lover do? Eileen Aroon! Fly with his broken chain Far o'er the sounding main, Never to love again,— Eileen Aroon!

Youth must with time decay, Eileen Aroon! Beauty must fade away, Eileen Aroon! Castles are sacked in war, Chieftains are scattered far, Truth is a fixed star,— Eileen Aroon!

Gerald Griffin [1803-1840]



ANNIE LAURIE

Maxwelton braes are bonnie Where early fa's the dew, And it's there that Annie Laurie Gie'd me her promise true— Gie'd me her promise true, Which ne'er forgot will be; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doun and dee.

Her brow is like the snaw-drift; Her throat is like the swan; Her face it is the fairest That e'er the sun shone on— That e'er the sun shone on— And dark blue is her ee; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doun and dee.

Like dew on the gowan lying Is the fa' o' her fairy feet; And like the winds in summer sighing, Her voice is low and sweet— Her voice is low and sweet— And she's a' the world to me; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doun and dee.

William Douglas [1672?-1748]



TO HELEN

Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicaean barks of yore, That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, The weary, wayworn wanderer bore To his own native shore.

On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs, have brought me home To the glory that was Greece And the grandeur that was Rome.

Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche How statue-like I see thee stand, The agate lamp within thy hand! Ah, Psyche, from the regions which Are Holy Land!

Edgar Allan Poe [1809-1849]



"A VOICE BY THE CEDAR TREE" From "Maud"

I A voice by the cedar tree, In the meadow under the Hall! She is singing an air that is known to me, A passionate ballad gallant and gay, A martial song like a trumpet's call! Singing alone in the morning of life, In the happy morning of life and of May, Singing of men that in battle array, Ready in heart and ready in hand, March with banner and bugle and fife To the death, for their native land.

II Maud with her exquisite face, And wild voice pealing up to the sunny sky, And feet like sunny gems on an English green, Maud in the light of her youth and her grace, Singing of Death, and of Honor that cannot die, Till I well could weep for a time so sordid and mean, And myself so languid and base.

III Silence, beautiful voice! Be still, for you only trouble the mind With a joy in which I cannot rejoice, A glory I shall not find. Still! I will hear you no more, For your sweetness hardly leaves me a choice But to move to the meadow and fall before Her feet on the meadow grass, and adore, Not her, who is neither courtly nor kind, Not her, not her, but a voice.

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]



SONG

Nay but you, who do not love her, Is she not pure gold, my mistress? Holds earth aught—speak truth—above her? Aught like this tress, see, and this tress, And this last fairest tress of all, So fair, see, ere I let it fall?

Because you spend your lives in praising; To praise, you search the wide world over: Then why not witness, calmly gazing, If earth holds aught—speak truth—above her? Above this tress, and this, I touch But cannot praise, I love so much!

Robert Browning [1812-1889]



THE HENCHMAN

My lady walks her morning round, My lady's page her fleet greyhound, My lady's hair the fond winds stir, And all the birds make songs for her.

Her thrushes sing in Rathburn bowers, And Rathburn side is gay with flowers; But ne'er like hers, in flower or bird, Was beauty seen or music heard.

The distance of the stars is hers; The least of all her worshipers, The dust beneath her dainty heel, She knows not that I see or feel.

Oh, proud and calm!—she cannot know Where'er she goes with her I go; Oh, cold and fair!—she cannot guess I kneel to share her hound's caress!

Gay knights beside her hunt and hawk, I rob their ears of her sweet talk; Her suitors come from east and west, I steal her smiles from every guest.

Unheard of her, in loving words, I greet her with the song of birds; I reach her with her green-armed bowers, I kiss her with the lips of flowers.

The hound and I are on her trail, The wind and I uplift her veil; As if the calm, cold moon she were, And I the tide, I follow her.

As unrebuked as they, I share The license of the sun and air, And in a common homage hide My worship from her scorn and pride.

World-wide apart, and yet so near, I breathe her charmed atmosphere, Wherein to her my service brings The reverence due to holy things.

Her maiden pride, her haughty name, My dumb devotion shall not shame; The love that no return doth crave To knightly levels lifts the slave.

No lance have I, in joust or fight, To splinter in my lady's sight; But, at her feet, how blest were I For any need of hers to die!

John Greenleaf Whittier [1807-1892]



LOVELY MARY DONNELLY

Oh, lovely Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best! If fifty girls were round you I'd hardly see the rest. Be what it may the time of day, the place be where it will, Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still.

Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on a rock, How clear they are, how dark they are! they give me many a shock. Red rowans warm in sunshine and wetted with a shower, Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its power.

Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up, Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup, Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine; It's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered in a twine.

The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceeded all before; No pretty girl for miles about was missing from the floor; But Mary kept the belt of love, and O but she was gay! She danced a jig, she sung a song, that took my heart away.

When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete, The music nearly killed itself to listen to her feet; The fiddler moaned his blindness, he heard her so much praised, But blessed his luck he wasn't deaf when once her voice she raised.

And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung, Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue; But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on both your hands, And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger stands.

Oh, you're the flower o' womankind in country or in town; The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down. If some great lord should come this way, and see your beauty bright, And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right.

O might we live together in a lofty palace hall, Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall! O might we live together in a cottage mean and small, With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only wall!

O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my distress: It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never wish it less. The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low; But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go!

William Allingham [1824-1889]



LOVE IN THE VALLEY

Under yonder beech-tree single on the green-sward, Couched with her arms behind her golden head, Knees and tresses folded to slip and ripple idly, Lies my young love sleeping in the shade. Had I the heart to slide an arm beneath her, Press her parting lips as her waist I gather slow, Waking in amazement she could not but embrace me: Then would she hold me and never let me go?

Shy as the squirrel and wayward as the swallow, Swift as the swallow along the river's light Circleting the surface to meet his mirrored winglets, Fleeter she seems in her stay than in her flight. Shy as the squirrel that leaps among the pine-tops, Wayward as the swallow overhead at set of sun, She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer, Hard, but O the glory of the winning were she won!

When her mother tends her before the laughing mirror, Tying up her laces, looping up her hair, Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded, More love should I have, and much less care. When her mother tends her before the lighted mirror, Loosening her laces, combing down her curls, Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded, I should miss but one for many boys and girls.

Heartless she is as the shadow in the meadows, Flying to the hills on a blue and breezy noon. No, she is athirst and drinking up her wonder: Earth to her is young as the slip of the new moon. Deals she an unkindness, 'tis but her rapid measure, Even as in a dance; and her smile can heal no less: Like the swinging May-cloud that pelts the flowers with hailstones Off a sunny border, she was made to bruise and bless.

Lovely are the curves of the white owl sweeping Wavy in the dusk lit by one large star. Lone on the fir-branch, his rattle-note unvaried, Brooding o'er the gloom, spins the brown eve-jar. Darker grows the valley, more and more forgetting: So were it with me if forgetting could be willed. Tell the grassy hollow that holds the bubbling well-spring, Tell it to forget the source that keeps it filled.

Stepping down the hill with her fair companions, Arm in arm, all against the raying West, Boldly she sings, to the merry tune she marches; Brave in her shape, and sweeter unpossessed. Sweeter, for she is what my heart first awaking Whispered the world was; morning light is she. Love that so desires would fain keep her changeless; Fain would fling the net, and fain have her free.

Happy happy time, when the white star hovers Low over dim fields fresh with bloomy dew, Near the face of dawn, that draws athwart the darkness, Threading it with color, like yewberries the yew. Thicker crowd the shades as the grave East deepens Glowing, and with crimson a long cloud swells. Maiden still the morn is; and strange she is, and secret; Strange her eyes; her cheeks are cold as cold sea-shells.

Sunrays, leaning on our southern hills and lighting Wild cloud-mountains that drag the hills along, Oft ends the day of your shifting brilliant laughter Chill as a dull face frowning on a song. Ay, but shows the South-west a ripple-feathered bosom Blown to silver while the clouds are shaken and ascend Scaling the mid-heavens as they stream, there comes a sunset Rich, deep like love in beauty without end.

When at dawn she sighs, and like an infant to the window Turns grave eyes craving light, released from dreams, Beautiful she looks, like a white water-lily Bursting out of bud in havens of the streams. When from bed she rises clothed from neck to ankle In her long nightgown sweet as boughs of May, Beautiful she looks, like a tall garden-lily Pure from the night, and splendid for the day.

Mother of the dews, dark eye-lashed twilight, Low-lidded twilight, o'er the valley's brim, Rounding on thy breast sings the dew-delighted skylark, Clear as though the dewdrops had their voice in him. Hidden where the rose-flush drinks the rayless planet, Fountain-full he pours the spraying fountain-showers. Let me hear her laughter, I would have her ever Cool as dew in twilight, the lark above the flowers.

All the girls are out with their baskets for the primrose; Up lanes, woods through, they troop in joyful bands. My sweet leads: she knows not why, but now she loiters, Eyes the bent anemones, and hangs her hands. Such a look will tell that the violets are peeping, Coming the rose: and unaware a cry Springs in her bosom for odors and for color, Covert and the nightingale; she knows not why.

Kerchiefed head and chin she darts between her tulips, Streaming like a willow gray in arrowy rain: Some bend beaten cheek to gravel, and their angel She will be; she lifts them, and on she speeds again. Black the driving rain cloud breasts the iron gateway: She is forth to cheer a neighbor lacking mirth. So when sky and grass met rolling dumb for thunder Saw I once a white dove, sole light of earth.

Prim little scholars are the flowers of her garden, Trained to stand in rows, and asking if they please. I might love them well but for loving more the wild ones: O my wild ones! they tell me more than these. You, my wild one, you tell of honied field-rose, Violet, blushing eglantine in life; and even as they, They by the wayside are earnest of your goodness, You are of life's, on the banks that line the way.

Peering at her chamber the white crowns the red rose, Jasmine winds the porch with stars two and three. Parted is the window; she sleeps; the starry jasmine Breathes a falling breath that carries thoughts of me. Sweeter unpossessed, have I said of her my sweetest? Not while she sleeps: while she sleeps the jasmine breathes, Luring her to love: she sleeps; the starry jasmine Bears me to her pillow under white rose-wreaths.

Yellow with birdfoot-trefoil are the grass-glades; Yellow with cinquefoil of the dew-gray leaf; Yellow with stonecrop; the moss-mounds are yellow; Blue-necked the wheat sways, yellowing to the sheaf. Green-yellow bursts from the copse the laughing yaffle; Sharp as a sickle is the edge of shade and shine: Earth in her heart laughs looking at the heavens, Thinking of the harvest: I look and think of mine.

This I may know: her dressing and undressing Such a change of light shows as when the skies in sport Shift from cloud to moonlight; or edging over thunder Slips a ray of sun; or sweeping into port White sails furl; or on the ocean borders White sails lean along the waves leaping green. Visions of her shower before me, but from eyesight Guarded she would be like the sun were she seen.

Front door and back of the mossed old farmhouse Open with the morn, and in a breezy link Freshly sparkles garden to stripe-shadowed orchard, Green across a rill where on sand the minnows wink. Busy in the grass the early sun of summer Swarms, and the blackbird's mellow fluting notes Call my darling up with round and roguish challenge: Quaintest, richest carol of all the singing throats!

Cool was the woodside; cool as her white dairy Keeping sweet the cream-pan; and there the boys from school, Cricketing below, rushed brown and red with sunshine; O the dark translucence of the deep-eyed cool! Spying from the farm, herself she fetched a pitcher Full of milk, and tilted for each in turn the beak. Then a little fellow, mouth up and on tiptoe, Said, "I will kiss you": she laughed and leaned her cheek.

Doves of the fir-wood walling high our red roof Through the long noon coo, crooning through the coo. Loose droop the leaves, and down the sleepy roadway Sometimes pipes a chaffinch; loose droops the blue. Cows flap a slow tail knee-deep in the river, Breathless, given up to sun and gnat and fly. Nowhere is she seen; and if I see her nowhere, Lightning may come, straight rains and tiger sky.

O the golden sheaf, the rustling treasure-armful! O the nutbrown tresses nodding interlaced! O the treasure-tresses one another over Nodding! O the girdle slack about the waist! Slain are the poppies that shot their random scarlet Quick amid the wheat-ears: wound about the waist, Gathered, see these brides of Earth one blush of ripeness! O the nutbrown tresses nodding interlaced.

Large and smoky red the sun's cold disk drops, Clipped by naked hills, on violet shaded snow: Eastward large and still lights up a bower of moonrise, Whence at her leisure steps the moon aglow. Nightlong on black print-branches our beech-tree Gazes in this whiteness: nightlong could I. Here may life on death or death on life be painted. Let me clasp her soul to know she cannot die!

Gossips count her faults; they scour a narrow chamber Where there is no window, read not heaven or her. "When she was a tiny," one aged woman quavers, Plucks at my heart and leads me by the ear. Faults she had once as she learned to run and tumbled: Faults of feature some see, beauty not complete. Yet, good gossips, beauty that makes holy Earth and air, may have faults from head to feet.

Hither she comes; she comes to me; she lingers, Deepens her brown eyebrows, while in new surprise High rise the lashes in wonder of a stranger; Yet am I the light and living of her eyes. Something friends have told her fills her heart to brimming, Nets her in her blushes, and wounds her, and tames.— Sure of her haven, O like a dove alighting, Arms up, she dropped: our souls were in our names.

Soon will she lie like a white frost sunrise. Yellow oats and brown wheat, barley pale as rye, Long since your sheaves have yielded to the thresher, Felt the girdle loosened, seen the tresses fly. Soon will she lie like a blood-red sunset. Swift with the to-morrow, green-winged Spring! Sing from the South-west, bring her back the truants, Nightingale and swallow, song and dipping wing.

Soft new beech-leaves, up to beamy April Spreading bough on bough a primrose mountain, you, Lucid in the moon, raise lilies to the skyfields, Youngest green transfused in silver shining through: Fairer than the lily, than the wild white cherry: Fair as in image my seraph love appears Borne to me by dreams when dawn is at my eyelids: Fair as in the flesh she swims to me on tears.

Could I find a place to be alone with heaven, I would speak my heart out: heaven is my need. Every woodland tree is flushing like the dogwood, Flashing like the whitebeam, swaying like the reed. Flushing like the dogwood crimson in October; Streaming like the flag-reed South-west blown; Flashing as in gusts the sudden-lighted whitebeam: All seem to know what is for heaven alone.

George Meredith [1828-1909]



MARIAN

She can be as wise as we, And wiser when she wishes; She can knit with cunning wit, And dress the homely dishes. She can flourish staff or pen, And deal a wound that lingers; She can talk the talk of men, And touch with thrilling fingers.

Match her ye across the sea, Natures fond and fiery; Ye who zest the turtle's nest With the eagle's eyrie. Soft and loving is her soul, Swift and lofty soaring; Mixing with its dove-like dole Passionate adoring.

Such a she who'll match with me? In flying or pursuing, Subtle wiles are in her smiles To set the world a-wooing. She is steadfast as a star, And yet the maddest maiden: She can wage a gallant war, And give the peace of Eden.

George Meredith [1828-1909]



PRAISE OF MY LADY

My lady seems of ivory Forehead, straight nose, and cheeks that be Hollowed a little mournfully. Beata mea Domina!

Her forehead, overshadowed much By bows of hair, has a wave such As God was good to make for me. Beata mea Domina!

Not greatly long my lady's hair, Nor yet with yellow color fair, But thick and crisped wonderfully: Beata mea Domina!

Heavy to make the pale face sad, And dark, but dead as though it had Been forged by God most wonderfully Beata mea Domina!

Of some strange metal, thread by thread, To stand out from my lady's head, Not moving much to tangle me. Beata mea Domina!

Beneath her brows the lids fall slow, The lashes a clear shadow throw Where I would wish my lips to be. Beata mea Domina!

Her great eyes, standing far apart, Draw up some memory from her heart, And gaze out very mournfully; Beata mea Domina!

So beautiful and kind they are, But most times looking out afar, Waiting for something, not for me. Beata mea Domina!

I wonder if the lashes long Are those that do her bright eyes wrong, For always half tears seem to be Beata mea Domina!

Lurking below the underlid, Darkening the place where they lie hid: If they should rise and flow for me! Beata mea Domina!

Her full lips being made to kiss, Curled up and pensive each one is; This makes me faint to stand and see. Beata mea Domina!

Her lips are not contented now, Because the hours pass so slow Towards a sweet time: (pray for me), Beata mea Domina!

Nay, hold thy peace! for who can tell? But this at least I know full well, Her lips are parted longingly, Beata mea Domina!

So passionate and swift to move, To pluck at any flying love, That I grow faint to stand and see. Beata mea Domina!

Yea! there beneath them is her chin, So fine and round, it were a sin To feel no weaker when I see Beata mea Domina!

God's dealings; for with so much care And troublous, faint lines wrought in there, He finishes her face for me. Beata mea Domina!

Of her long neck what shall I say? What things about her body's sway, Like a knight's pennon or slim tree Beata mea Domina!

Set gently waving in the wind; Or her long hands that I may find On some day sweet to move o'er me? Beata mea Domina!

God pity me though, if I missed The telling, how along her wrist The veins creep, dying languidly Beata mea Domina!

Inside her tender palm and thin. Now give me pardon, dear, wherein My voice is weak and vexes thee. Beata mea Domina!

All men that see her any time, I charge you straightly in this rhyme, What, and wherever you may be, Beata mea Domina!

To kneel before her; as for me I choke and grow quite faint to see My lady moving graciously. Beata mea Domina!

William Morris [1834-1896]



MADONNA MIA

Under green apple boughs That never a storm will rouse, My lady hath her house Between two bowers; In either of the twain Red roses full of rain; She hath for bondwomen All kind of flowers.

She hath no handmaid fair To draw her curled gold hair Through rings of gold that bear Her whole hair's weight; She hath no maids to stand Gold-clothed on either hand; In all that great green land None is so great.

She hath no more to wear But one white hood of vair Drawn over eyes and hair, Wrought with strange gold, Made for some great queen's head, Some fair great queen since dead; And one strait gown of red Against the cold.

Beneath her eyelids deep Love lying seems asleep, Love, swift to wake, to weep, To laugh, to gaze; Her breasts are like white birds, And all her gracious words As water-grass to herds In the June-days.

To her all dews that fall And rains are musical; Her flowers are fed from all, Her joys from these; In the deep-feathered firs Their gift of joy is hers, In the least breath that stirs Across the trees.

She grows with greenest leaves, Ripens with reddest sheaves, Forgets, remembers, grieves, And is not sad; The quiet lands and skies Leave light upon her eyes; None knows her, weak or wise, Or tired or glad.

None knows, none understands, What flowers are like her hands; Though you should search all lands Wherein time grows, What snows are like her feet, Though his eyes burn with heat Through gazing on my sweet,— Yet no man knows.

Only this thing is said; That white and gold and red, God's three chief words, man's bread And oil and wine, Were given her for dowers, And kingdom of all hours, And grace of goodly flowers And various vine.

This is my lady's praise: God after many days Wrought her in unknown ways, In sunset lands; This is my lady's birth; God gave her might and mirth. And laid his whole sweet earth Between her hands.

Under deep apple boughs My lady hath her house; She wears upon her brows The flower thereof; All saying but what God saith To her is as vain breath; She is more strong than death, Being strong as love.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]



"MEET WE NO ANGELS, PANSIE?"

Came, on a Sabbath morn, my sweet, In white, to find her lover; The grass grew proud beneath her feet, The green elm-leaves above her:— Meet we no angels, Pansie?

She said, "We meet no angels now"; And soft lights streamed upon her; And with white hand she touched a bough; She did it that great honor:— What! meet no angels, Pansie?

O sweet brown hat, brown hair, brown eyes, Down-dropped brown eyes, so tender! Then what said I?—gallant replies Seem flattery, and offend her:— But,—meet we no angels, Pansie?

Thomas Ashe [1836-1889]



TO DAPHNE

Like apple-blossoms, white and red; Like hues of dawn, which fly too soon; Like bloom of peach, so softly spread; Like thorn of May and rose of June— Oh, sweet! oh, fair! beyond compare, Are Daphne's cheeks, Are Daphne's blushing cheeks, I swear.

That pretty rose, which comes and goes Like April sunshine in the sky, I can command it when I choose— See how it rises if I cry: Oh, sweet! oh, fair! beyond compare, Are Daphne's cheeks, Are Daphne's blushing cheeks, I swear.

Ah! when it lies round lips and eyes, And fades away, again to spring, No lover, sure, could ask for more Than still to cry, and still to sing: Oh, sweet! oh, fair! beyond compare, Are Daphne's cheeks, Are Daphne's blushing cheeks, I swear.

Walter Besant [1836-1901]



"GIRL OF THE RED MOUTH"

Girl of the red mouth, Love me! Love me! Girl of the red mouth, Love me! 'Tis by its curve, I know, Love fashioneth his bow, And bends it—ah, even so! Oh, girl of the red mouth, love me!

Girl of the blue eye, Love me! Love me! Girl of the dew eye, Love me! Worlds hang for lamps on high; And thought's world lives in thy Lustrous and tender eye— Oh, girl of the blue eye, love me!

Girl of the swan's neck, Love me! Love me! Girl of the swan's neck, Love me! As a marble Greek doth grow To his steed's back of snow, Thy white neck sits thy shoulder so,— Oh, girl of the swan's neck, love me!

Girl of the low voice, Love me! Love me! Girl of the sweet voice, Love me! Like the echo of a bell,— Like the bubbling of a well,— Sweeter! Love within doth dwell,— Oh, girl of the low voice, love me!

Martin MacDermott [1823-1905]



THE DAUGHTER OF MENDOZA

O lend to me, sweet nightingale, Your music by the fountain, And lend to me your cadences, O river of the mountain! That I may sing my gay brunette, A diamond spark in coral set, Gem for a prince's coronet— The daughter of Mendoza.

How brilliant is the morning star, The evening star how tender,— The light of both is in her eyes, Their softness and their splendor. But for the lash that shades their light They were too dazzling for the sight, And when she shuts them, all is night— The daughter of Mendoza.

O ever bright and beauteous one, Bewildering and beguiling, The lute is in thy silvery tones, The rainbow in thy smiling; And thine, is, too, o'er hill and dell, The bounding of the young gazelle, The arrow's flight and ocean's swell— Sweet daughter of Mendoza!

What though, perchance, we no more meet,— What though too soon we sever? Thy form will float like emerald light Before my vision ever. For who can see and then forget The glories of my gay brunette— Thou art too bright a star to set, Sweet daughter of Mendoza!

Mirabeau Bonaparte Lamar [1798-1859]



"IF SHE BE MADE OF WHITE AND RED"

If she be made of white and red, As all transcendent beauty shows; If heaven be blue above her head, And earth be golden, as she goes: Nay, then thy deftest words restrain; Tell not that beauty, it is vain.

If she be filled with love and scorn, As all divinest natures are; If 'twixt her lips such words are born, As can but Heaven or Hell confer: Bid Love be still, nor ever speak, Lest he his own rejection seek.

Herbert P. Horne [1864-



THE LOVER'S SONG

Lend me thy fillet, Love! I would no longer see: Cover mine eyelids close awhile, And make me blind like thee.

Then might I pass her sunny face, And know not it was fair; Then might I hear her voice, nor guess Her starry eyes were there.

Ah! banished so from stars and sun— Why need it be my fate? If only she might dream me good And wise, and be my mate!

Lend her thy fillet, Love! Let her no longer see: If there is hope for me at all, She must be blind like thee.

Edward Rowland Sill [1841-1887]



"WHEN FIRST I SAW HER"

When first I saw her, at the stroke The heart of nature in me spoke; The very landscape smiled more sweet, Lit by her eyes, pressed by her feet; She made the stars of heaven more bright By sleeping under them at night; And fairer made the flowers of May By being lovelier than they.

O, soft, soft, where the sunshine spread, Dark in the grass I laid my head; And let the lights of earth depart To find her image in my heart; Then through my being came and went Tones of some heavenly instrument, As if where its blind motions roll The world should wake and be a soul.

George Edward Woodberry [1855-1930]



MY APRIL LADY

When down the stair at morning The sunbeams round her float, Sweet rivulets of laughter Are rippling in her throat; The gladness of her greeting Is gold without alloy; And in the morning sunlight I think her name is Joy.

When in the evening twilight The quiet book-room lies, We read the sad old ballads, While from her hidden eyes The tears are falling, falling, That give her heart relief; And in the evening twilight, I think her name is Grief.