My little April lady, Of sunshine and of showers She weaves the old spring magic, And breaks my heart in flowers! But when her moods are ended, She nestles like a dove; Then, by the pain and rapture, I know her name is Love.

Henry Van Dyke [1852-1933]



THE MILKMAID A New Song To An Old Tune

Across the grass I see her pass; She comes with tripping pace,— A maid I know,—and March winds blow Her hair across her face;— With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine.

The March winds blow. I watch her go: Her eye is brown and clear; Her cheek is brown, and soft as down, (To those who see it near!)— With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine.

What has she not that those have got,— The dames that walk in silk! If she undo her kerchief blue, Her neck is white as milk. With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine.

Let those who will be proud and chill! For me, from June to June, My Dolly's words are sweet as curds— Her laugh is like a tune;— With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine.

Break, break to hear, O crocus-spear! O tall Lent-lilies flame! There'll be a bride at Easter-tide, And Dolly is her name. With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine.

Austin Dobson [1840-1921]



SONG

This peach is pink with such a pink As suits the peach divinely; The cunning color rarely spread Fades to the yellow finely; But where to spy the truest pink Is in my Love's soft cheek, I think.

The snowdrop, child of windy March, Doth glory in her whiteness; Her golden neighbors, crocuses, Unenvious praise her brightness! But I do know where, out of sight, My sweetheart keeps a warmer white.

Norman Gale [1862-



IN FEBRUARY

My Lady's birthday crowns the growing year; A flower of Spring before the Spring is here; To sing of her and this fair day to keep The very Loves forsake their Winter sleep; Where'er she goes their circling wings they spread, And shower celestial roses o'er her head. I, too, would chant her worth and dare to raise A hymn to what's beyond immortal praise. Go, little verse, and lay in vesture meet Of poesy, my homage at her feet.

Henry Simpson [1868-



"LOVE, I MARVEL WHAT YOU ARE"

Love, I marvel what you are! Heaven in a pearl of dew, Lilies hearted with a star— All are you.

Spring along your forehead shines And the summer blooms your breast. Graces of autumnal vines Round you rest.

Birds about a limpid rose Making song and light of wing While the warm wind sunny blows,— So you sing.

Darling, if the little dust, That I know is merely I, Have availed to win your trust, Let me die.

Trumbull Stickney [1874-1904]



BALLADE OF MY LADY'S BEAUTY

Squire Adam had two wives, they say, Two wives had he for his delight; He kissed and clypt them all the day, And clypt and kissed them all the night. Now Eve like ocean foam was white, And Lilith, roses dipped in wine, But though they were a goodly sight, No lady is so fair as mine.

To Venus some folk tribute pay, And Queen of Beauty she is hight, And Sainte Marie the world doth sway, In cerule napery bedight. My wonderment these twain invite, Their comeliness it is divine; And yet I say in their despite, No lady is so fair as mine.

Dame Helen caused a grievous fray, For love of her brave men did fight, The eyes of her made sages fey And put their hearts in woeful plight. To her no rhymes will I indite, For her no garlands will I twine; Though she be made of flowers and light, No lady is so fair as mine.

L'ENVOI Prince Eros, Lord of lovely might, Who on Olympus doth recline, Do I not tell the truth aright? No lady is so fair as mine.

Joyce Kilmer [1886-1918]



URSULA

I see her in the festal warmth to-night, Her rest all grace, her motion all delight. Endowed with all the woman's arts that please, In her soft gown she seems a thing of ease, Whom sorrow may not reach or evil blight.

To-morrow she will toil from floor to floor To smile upon the unreplying poor, To stay the tears of widows, and to be Confessor to men's erring hearts... ah me! She knows not I am beggar at her door.

Robert Underwood Johnson [1853-



VILLANELLE OF HIS LADY'S TREASURES

I took her dainty eyes, as well As silken tendrils of her hair: And so I made a Villanelle!

I took her voice, a silver bell, As clear as song, as soft as prayer; I took her dainty eyes as well.

It may be, said I, who can tell, These things shall be my less despair? And so I made a Villanelle!

I took her whiteness virginal And from her cheeks two roses rare: I took her dainty eyes as well.

I said: "It may be possible Her image from my heart to tear!" And so I made a Villanelle!

I stole her laugh, most musical: I wrought it in with artful care; I took her dainty eyes as well; And so I made a Villanelle.

Ernest Dowson [1867-1900]



SONG

Love, by that loosened hair Well now I know Where the lost Lilith went So long ago.

Love, by those starry eyes I understand How the sea maidens lure Mortals from land.

Love, by that welling laugh Joy claims his own Sea-born and wind-wayward Child of the sun.

Bliss Carman [1861-1929]



SONG

O, like a queen's her happy tread, And like a queen's her golden head! But O, at last, when all is said, Her woman's heart for me!

We wandered where the river gleamed 'Neath oaks that mused and pines that dreamed, A wild thing of the woods she seemed, So proud, and pure, and free!

All heaven drew nigh to hear her sing, When from her lips her soul took wing; The oaks forgot their pondering, The pines their reverie.

And O, her happy, queenly tread, And O, her queenly golden head! But O, her heart, when all is said, Her woman's heart for me!

William Watson [1858-1935]



ANY LOVER, ANY LASS

Why are her eyes so bright, so bright, Why do her lips control The kisses of a summer night, When I would love her soul?

God set her brave eyes wide apart And painted them with fire; They stir the ashes of my heart To embers of desire.

Her lips so tenderly are wrought In so divine a shape, That I am servant to my thought And can no wise escape.

Her body is a flower, her hair About her neck doth play; I find her colors everywhere, They are the pride of day.

Her little hands are soft, and when I see her fingers move I know in very truth that men Have died for less than love.

Ah, dear, live, lovely thing! my eyes Have sought her like a prayer; It is my better self that cries "Would she were not so fair!"

Would I might forfeit ecstasy And find a calmer place, Where I might undesirous see Her too desired face:

Nor find her eyes so bright, so bright, Nor hear her lips unroll Dream after dream the lifelong night, When I would love her soul.

Richard Middleton [1882-1911]



SONGS ASCENDING

Love has been sung a thousand ways— So let it be; The songs ascending in your praise Through all my days Are three.

Your cloud-white body first I sing; Your love was heaven's blue, And I, a bird, flew carolling In ring on ring Of you.

Your nearness is the second song; When God began to be, And bound you strongly, right or wrong, With his own thong, To me.

But oh, the song, eternal, high, That tops these two!— You live forever, you who die, I am not I But you.

Witter Bynner [1881-



SONG

"Oh! Love," they said, "is King of Kings, And Triumph is his crown. Earth fades in flame before his wings, And Sun and Moon bow down."— But that, I knew, would never do; And Heaven is all too high. So whenever I meet a Queen, I said, I will not catch her eye.

"Oh! Love," they said, and "Love," they said, "The gift of Love is this; A crown of thorns about thy head, And vinegar to thy kiss!"— But Tragedy is not for me; And I'm content to be gay. So whenever I spied a Tragic Lady, I went another way.

And so I never feared to see You wander down the street, Or come across the fields to me On ordinary feet. For what they'd never told me of, And what I never knew; It was that all the time, my love, Love would be merely you.

Rupert Brooke [1887-1915]



SONG

How do I love you? I do not know. Only because of you Gladly I go.

Only because of you Labor is sweet, And all the song of you Sings in my feet.

Only the thought of you Trembles and lies Just where the world begins— Under my eyes.

Irene Rutherford McLeod [1891-



TO... IN CHURCH

If I was drawn here from a distant place, 'Twas not to pray nor hear our friend's address, But, gazing once more on your winsome face, To worship there Ideal Loveliness. On that pure shrine that has too long ignored The gifts that once I brought so frequently I lay this votive offering, to record How sweet your quiet beauty seemed to me. Enchanting girl, my faith is not a thing By futile prayers and vapid psalm-singing To vent in crowded nave and public pew. My creed is simple: that the world is fair, And beauty the best thing to worship there, And I confess it by adoring you.

Alan Seeger [1888-1916]



AFTER TWO YEARS

She is all so slight And tender and white As a May morning. She walks without hood At dusk. It is good To hear her sing.

It is God's will That I shall love her still As He loves Mary. And night and day I will go forth to pray That she love me.

She is as gold Lovely, and far more cold. Do thou pray with me, For if I win grace To kiss twice her face God has done well to me.

Richard Aldington [1892-



PRAISE

Dear, they are praising your beauty, The grass and the sky: The sky in a silence of wonder, The grass in a sigh.

I too would sing for your praising, Dearest, had I Speech as the whispering grass, Or the silent sky.

These have an art for the praising Beauty so high. Sweet, you are praised in a silence, Sung in a sigh.

Seumas O'Sullivan [1879-



PLAINTS AND PROTESTATIONS



"FORGET NOT YET" The Lover Beseecheth His Mistress Not To Forget His Steadfast Faith And True Intent

Forget not yet the tried intent Of such a truth as I have meant: My great travail so gladly spent, Forget not yet!

Forget not yet when first began The weary life ye know, since when The suit, the service, none tell can; Forget not yet!

Forget not yet the great assays, The cruel wrong, the scornful ways, The painful patience in delays, Forget not yet!

Forget not! O, forget not this!— How long ago hath been, and is, The mind that never meant amiss— Forget not yet!

Forget not then thine own approved, The which so long hath thee so loved, Whose steadfast faith yet never moved: Forget not this!

Thomas Wyatt [1503?-1542]



FAWNIA From "Pandosto"

Ah! were she pitiful as she is fair, Or but as mild as she is seeming so, Then were my hopes greater than my despair, Then all the world were heaven, nothing woe.

Ah! were her heart relenting as her hand, That seems to melt even with the mildest touch, Then knew I where to seat me in a land Under wide heavens, but yet there is not such. So as she shows she seems the budding rose, Yet sweeter far than is an earthly flower; Sovereign of beauty, like the spray she grows; Compassed she is with thorns and cankered flower. Yet were she willing to be plucked and worn, She would be gathered, though she grew on thorn.

Ah! when she sings, all music else be still, For none must be compared to her note; Ne'er breathed such glee from Philomela's bill, Nor from the morning-singer's swelling throat. Ah! when she riseth from her blissful bed She comforts all the world as doth the sun, And at her sight the night's foul vapor's fled; When she is set the gladsome day is done. O glorious sun, imagine me the west, Shine in my arms, and set thou in my breast!

Robert Greene [1560?-1592]



THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE

Come live with me and be my Love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dales and fields, Or woods or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks, And see the shepherds feed their flocks By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses And a thousand fragrant posies; A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle.

A gown made of the finest wool Which from our pretty lambs we pull; Fair-lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw and ivy-buds With coral clasps and amber studs: And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me and be my Love.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing For thy delight each May morning: If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me and be my Love.

Christopher Marlowe [1564-1593]



THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD

If all the world and love were young, And truth in every shepherd's tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee, and be thy Love.

But Time drives flocks from field to fold; When rivers rage and rocks grow cold; And Philomel becometh dumb; The rest complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields To wayward Winter reckoning yields: A honey tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, Soon break, soon wither,—soon forgotten, In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds, Thy coral clasps and amber studs,— All these in me no means can move To come to thee and be thy Love.

But could youth last, and love still breed, Had joys no date, nor age no need, Then these delights my mind might move To live with thee and be thy Love.

Walter Raleigh [1552?-1618]



"WRONG NOT, SWEET EMPRESS OF MY HEART"

Wrong not, sweet empress of my heart, The merit of true passion, With thinking that he feels no smart, That sues for no compassion.

Silence in love bewrays more woe Than words, though ne'er so witty: A beggar that is dumb, you know, May challenge double pity.

Then wrong not, dearest to my heart, My true, though secret passion; He smarteth most that hides his smart, And sues for no compassion.

Walter Raleigh [1552?-1618]



TO HIS COY LOVE

I pray thee, leave, love me no more, Call home the heart you gave me! I but in vain that saint adore That can but will not save me. These poor half-kisses kill me quite— Was ever man thus served: Amidst an ocean of delight For pleasure to be starved!

Show me no more those snowy breasts With azure riverets branched, Where, whilst mine eye with plenty feasts, Yet is my thirst not stanched; O Tantalus, thy pains ne'er tell! By me thou art prevented: 'Tis nothing to be plagued in Hell, But thus in Heaven tormented.

Clip me no more in those dear arms, Nor thy life's comfort call me, O these are but too powerful charms, And do but more enthral me! But see how patient I am grown In all this coil about thee: Come, nice thing, let my heart alone, I cannot live without thee!

Michael Drayton [1563-1631]



HER SACRED BOWER

Where she her sacred bower adorns, The rivers clearly flow, The groves and meadows swell with flowers, The winds all gently blow. Her sun-like beauty shines so fair, Her spring can never fade: Who then can blame the life that strives To harbor in her shade?

Her grace I sought, her love I wooed; Her love thought to obtain; No time, no toil, no vow, no faith, Her wished grace can gain. Yet truth can tell my heart is hers And her will I adore; And from that love when I depart, Let heaven view me no more!

Her roses with my prayers shall spring; And when her trees I praise, Their boughs shall blossom, mellow fruit Shall strew her pleasant ways. The words of hearty zeal have power High wonders to effect; O, why should then her princely ear My words or zeal neglect?

If she my faith misdeems, or worth, Woe worth my hapless fate! For though time can my truth reveal, That time will come too late. And who can glory in the worth That cannot yield him grace? Content in everything is not, Nor joy in every place.

But from her Bower of Joy since I Must now excluded be, And she will not relieve my cares, Which none can help but she; My comfort in her love shall dwell, Her love lodge in my breast, And though not in her bower, yet I Shall in her temple rest.

Thomas Campion [?—1619]



TO LESBIA After Catullus

My sweetest Lesbia, let us live and love, And though the sager sort our deeds reprove, Let us not weigh them. Heaven's great lamps do dive Into their west, and straight again revive: But soon as once set is our little light, Then must we sleep one ever-during night.

If all would lead their lives in love like me, Then bloody swords and armor should not be; No drum nor trumpet peaceful sleeps should move, Unless alarm came from the Camp of Love: But fools do live and waste their little light, And seek with pain their ever-during night.

When timely death my life and fortune ends, Let not my hearse be vexed with mourning friends; But let all lovers, rich in triumph, come And with sweet pastimes grace my happy tomb: And, Lesbia, close up thou my little light, And crown with love my ever-during night.

Thomas Campion [?—1619]



"LOVE ME OR NOT"

Love me or not, love her I must or die; Leave her or not, follow her needs must I. O that her grace would my wished comforts give! How rich in her, how happy should I live!

All my desire, all my delight should be Her to enjoy, her to unite to me; Envy should cease, her would I love alone: Who loves by looks, is seldom true to one.

Could I enchant, and that it lawful were, Her would I charm softly that none should hear; But love enforced rarely yields firm content: So would I love that neither should repent.

Thomas Campion [?—1619]



"THERE IS NONE, O NONE BUT YOU"

There is none, O none but you, That from me estrange the sight, Whom mine eyes affect to view, And chained ears hear with delight.

Other beauties others move: In you I all graces find; Such is the effect of Love, To make them happy that are kind.

Women in frail beauty trust, Only seem you fair to me: Still prove truly kind and just, For that may not dissembled be.

Sweet, afford me then your sight, That, surveying all your looks, Endless volumes I may write, And fill the world with envied books:

Which, when after-ages view, All shall wonder and despair,— Woman, to find a man so true, Or man, a woman half so fair!

Thomas Campion [?—1619]



OF CORINNA'S SINGING

When to her lute Corinna sings, Her voice revives the leaden strings, And doth in highest notes appear, As any challenged echo clear: But when she doth of mourning speak, E'en with her sighs, the strings do break.

And as her lute doth live or die, Led by her passion, so must I! For when of pleasure she doth sing, My thoughts enjoy a sudden spring: But if she doth of sorrow speak, E'en from my heart the strings do break.

Thomas Campion [?—1619]



"WERE MY HEART AS SOME MEN'S ARE"

Were my heart as some men's are, thy errors would not move me; But thy faults I curious find, and speak because I love thee: Patience is a thing divine, and far, I grant, above me.

Foes sometimes befriend us more, our blacker deeds objecting, Than the obsequious bosom-guest with false respect affecting: Friendship is the Glass of Truth, our hidden stains detecting.

When I use of eyes enjoy, and inward light of reason, Thy observer will I be and censor, but in season: Hidden mischief to conceal in State and Love is treason.

Thomas Campion [?—1619]



"KIND ARE HER ANSWERS"

Kind are her answers, But her performance keeps no day; Breaks time, as dancers From their own music when they stray. All her free favors And smooth words wing my hopes in vain. O, did ever voice so sweet but only feign? Can true love yield such delay, Converting joy to pain?

Lost is our freedom When we submit to women so: Why do we need 'em When, in their best, they work our woe? There is no wisdom Can alter ends by fate prefixed. O, why is the good of man with evil mixed? Never were days yet called two But one night went betwixt.

Thomas Campion [?—1619]



TO CELIA From "The Forest"

Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honoring thee As giving it a hope that there It could not withered be; But thou thereon didst only breathe, And sent'st it back to me; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself but thee!

Ben Jonson [1573?-1637]



SONG From "The Forest"

O, do not wanton with those eyes, Lest I be sick with seeing; Nor cast them down, but let them rise, Lest shame destroy their being.

O, be not angry with those fires, For then their threats will kill me; Nor look too kind on my desires, For then my hopes will spill me.

O, do not steep them in thy tears, For so will sorrow slay me; Nor spread them as distract with fears; Mine own enough betray me.

Ben Jonson [1573?-1637]



SONG

Go and catch a falling star, Get with child a mandrake root, Tell me where all past years are, Or who cleft the Devil's foot; Teach me to hear mermaid's singing, Or to keep off envy's stinging, And find What wind Serves to advance an honest mind.

If thou be'st born to strange sights, Things invisible go see, Ride ten thousand days and nights Till Age snow white hairs on thee; Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me All strange wonders that befell thee, And swear No where Lives a woman true and fair.

If thou find'st one, let me know; Such a pilgrimage were sweet. Yet do not; I would not go, Though at next door we might meet. Though she were true when you met her, And last till you write your letter, Yet she Will be False, ere I come, to two or three.

John Donne [1573-1631]



THE MESSAGE

Send home my long-strayed eyes to me, Which, O! too long have dwelt on thee: But if from you they've learned such ill, To sweetly smile, And then beguile, Keep the deceivers, keep them still.

Send home my harmless heart again, Which no unworthy thought could stain: But if it has been taught by thine To forfeit both Its word and oath, Keep it, for then 'tis none of mine.

Yet send me back my heart and eyes, For I'll know all thy falsities; That I one day may laugh, when thou Shalt grieve and mourn— Of one the scorn, Who proves as false as thou art now.

John Donne [1573-1631]



SONG

Ladies, though to your conquering eyes Love owes his chiefest victories, And borrows those bright arms from you With which he does the world subdue, Yet you yourselves are not above The empire nor the griefs of love.

Then rack not lovers with disdain, Lest Love on you revenge their pain: You are not free because you're fair: The Boy did not his Mother spare. Beauty's but an offensive dart: It is no armor for the heart.

George Etherege [1635?-1691]



TO A LADY ASKING HIM HOW LONG HE WOULD LOVE HER

It is not, Celia, in our power To say how long our love will last; It may be we within this hour May lose those joys we now do taste: The Blessed, that immortal be, From change in love are only free.

Then since we mortal lovers are, Ask not how long our love will last; But while it does, let us take care Each minute be with pleasure passed: Were it not madness to deny To live because we're sure to die?

George Etherege [1635?-1691]



TO AENONE

What conscience, say, is it in thee, When I a heart had one, To take away that heart from me, And to retain thy own?

For shame or pity now incline To play a loving part; Either to send me kindly thine, Or give me back my heart.

Covet not both; but if thou dost Resolve to part with neither, Why, yet to show that thou art just, Take me and mine together!

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]



TO ANTHEA, WHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANYTHING

Bid me to live, and I will live Thy Protestant to be; Or bid me love, and I will give A loving heart to thee.

A heart as soft, a heart as kind, A heart as sound and free As in the whole world thou canst find, That heart I'll give to thee.

Bid that heart stay, and it will stay To honor thy decree; Or bid it languish quite away, And 't shall do so for thee.

Bid me to weep, and I will weep, While I have eyes to see; And having none, yet will I keep A heart to weep for thee.

Bid me despair, and I'll despair, Under that cypress tree; Or bid me die, and I will dare E'en death, to die for thee.

Thou art my life, my love, my heart, The very eyes of me; And hast command of every part, To live and die for thee.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]



THE BRACELET: TO JULIA

Why I tie about thy wrist, Julia, this silken twist; For what other reason is't But to show thee how, in part, Thou my pretty captive art? But thy bond-slave is my heart: 'Tis but silk that bindeth thee, Snap the thread and thou art free; But 'tis otherwise with me; I am bound and fast bound, so That from thee I cannot go; If I could, I would not so.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]



TO THE WESTERN WIND

Sweet western wind, whose luck it is, Made rival with the air, To give Perenna's lip a kiss, And fan her wanton hair:

Bring me but one, I'll promise thee, Instead of common showers, Thy wings shall be embalmed by me, And all beset with flowers.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]



TO MY INCONSTANT MISTRESS

When thou, poor Excommunicate From all the joys of Love, shalt see The full reward and glorious fate Which my strong faith shall purchase me, Then curse thine own Inconstancy.

A fairer hand than thine shall cure That heart which thy false oaths did wound; And to my soul a soul more pure Than thine shall by Love's hand be bound, And both with equal glory crowned.

Then shalt thou weep, entreat, complain To Love, as I did once to thee: When all thy tears shall be as vain As mine were then: for thou shalt be Damned for thy false Apostasy.

Thomas Carew [1598?-1639?]



PERSUASIONS TO ENJOY

If the quick spirits in your eye Now languish and anon must die; If every sweet and every grace Must fly from that forsaken face: Then, Celia, let us reap our joys Ere Time such goodly fruit destroys.

Or, if that golden fleece must grow For ever free from aged snow; If those bright suns must know no shade, Nor your fresh beauties ever fade: Then fear not, Celia, to bestow What, still being gathered, still must grow.

Thus either Time his sickle brings In vain, or else in vain his wings.

Thomas Carew [1598?-1639?]



MEDIOCRITY IN LOVE REJECTED

Give me more love, or more disdain: The torrid, or the frozen zone Bring equal ease unto my pain; The temperate affords me none: Either extreme, of love or hate, Is sweeter than a calm estate.

Give me a storm; if it be love, Like Danae in that golden shower, I'll swim in pleasure; if it prove Disdain, that torrent will devour My vulture-hopes; and he's possessed Of heaven, that's but from hell released.

Then crown my joys, or cure my pain: Give me more love, or more disdain.

Thomas Carew [1598?-1639?]



THE MESSAGE

Ye little birds that sit and sing Amidst the shady valleys, And see how Phillis sweetly walks Within her garden-alleys; Go, pretty birds, about her bower; Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower; Ah me! methinks I see her frown! Ye pretty wantons, warble.

Go tell her through your chirping bills, As you by me are bidden, To her is only known my love, Which from the world is hidden. Go, pretty birds, and tell her so, See that your notes strain not too low, For still methinks I see her frown; Ye pretty wantons, warble.

Go tune your voices' harmony And sing, I am her lover; Strain loud and sweet, that every note With sweet content may move her: And she that hath the sweetest voice, Tell her I will not change my choice: —Yet still methinks I see her frown! Ye pretty wantons, warble.

O fly! make haste! see, see, she falls Into a pretty slumber! Sing round about her rosy bed That waking she may wonder: Say to her, 'tis her lover true That sendeth love to you, to you! And when you hear her kind reply, Return with pleasant warblings.

Thomas Heywood [?—1650?]



"HOW CAN THE HEART FORGET HER"

At her fair hands how have I grace entreated With prayers oft repeated! Yet still my love is thwarted: Heart, let her go, for she'll not be converted— Say, shall she go? O no, no, no, no, no! She is most fair, though she be marble-hearted.

How often have my sighs declared my anguish, Wherein I daily languish! Yet still she doth procure it: Heart, let her go, for I cannot endure it— Say, shall she go? O no, no, no, no, no! She gave the wound, and she alone must cure it.

But shall I still a true affection owe her, Which prayers, sighs, tears do show her, And shall she still disdain me? Heart, let her go, if they no grace can gain me— Say, shall she go? O no, no, no, no, no! She made me hers, and hers she will retain me.

But if the love that hath and still doth burn me No love at length return me, Out of my thoughts I'll set her: Heart, let her go, O heart I pray thee, let her! Say, shall she go? O no, no, no, no, no! Fixed in the heart, how can the heart forget her?

Francis Davison [fl. 1602]



TO ROSES IN THE BOSOM OF CASTARA

Ye blushing virgins happy are In the chaste nunnery of her breasts— For he'd profane so chaste a fair, Whoe'er should call them Cupid's nests.

Transplanted thus how bright ye grow! How rich a perfume do ye yield! In some close garden cowslips so Are sweeter than in the open field.

In those white cloisters live secure From the rude blasts of wanton breath!— Each hour more innocent and pure, Till you shall wither into death.

Then that which living gave you room, Your glorious sepulcher shall be. There wants no marble for a tomb Whose breast hath marble been to me.

William Habington [1605-1654]



TO FLAVIA

'Tis not your beauty can engage My wary heart; The sun, in all his pride and rage, Has not that art; And yet he shines as bright as you, If brightness could our souls subdue.

'Tis not the pretty things you say, Nor those you write, Which can make Thyrsis' heart your prey: For that delight, The graces of a well-taught mind, In some of our own sex we find.

No, Flavia, 'tis your love I fear; Love's surest darts, Those which so seldom fail him, are Headed with hearts: Their very shadows make us yield; Dissemble well, and win the field!

Edmund Waller [1606-1687]



"LOVE NOT ME FOR COMELY GRACE"

Love not me for comely grace, For my pleasing eye or face; Nor for any outward part, No, nor for a constant heart: For these may fail or turn to ill, So thou and I shall sever. Keep, therefore, a true woman's eye, And love me still, but know not why; So hast thou the same reason still To doat upon me ever.

Unknown



"WHEN, DEAREST, I BUT THINK OF THEE"

When, dearest, I but think of thee, Methinks all things that lovely be Are present, and my soul delighted: For beauties that from worth arise Are, like the grace of deities, Still present with us, though unsighted.

Thus while I sit and sigh the day With all his borrowed lights away, Till night's black wings do overtake me, Thinking on thee, thy beauties then, As sudden lights do sleepy men, So they by their bright rays awake me.

Thus absence dies, and dying proves No absence can subsist with loves That do partake of fair perfection: Since in the darkest night they may By their quick motion find a way To see each other by reflection.

The waving sea can with each flood Bathe some high promont that hath stood Far from the main up in the river: O think not then but love can do As much! for that's an ocean too, Which flows not every day, but ever!

John Suckling [1609-1642] or Owen Felltham [1602?-1668]



A DOUBT OF MARTYRDOM

O for some honest lover's ghost, Some kind unbodied post Sent from the shades below! I strangely long to know Whether the noble chaplets wear Those that their mistress' scorn did bear Or those that were used kindly.

For whatsoe'er they tell us here To make those sufferings dear, 'Twill there, I fear, be found That to the being crowned To have loved alone will not suffice, Unless we also have been wise And have our loves enjoyed.

What posture can we think him in That, here unloved, again Departs, and's thither gone Where each sits by his own? Or how can that Elysium be Where I my mistress still must see Circled in other's arms?

For there the judges all are just, And Sophonisba must Be his whom she held dear, Not his who loved her here. The sweet Philoclea, since she died, Lies by her Pirocles his side, Not by Amphialus.

Some bays, perchance, or myrtle bough For difference crowns the brow Of those kind souls that were The noble martyrs here: And if that be the only odds (As who can tell?), ye kinder gods, Give me the woman here!

John Suckling [1609-1642]



TO CHLOE Who For His Sake Wished Herself Younger

Chloe, why wish you that your years Would backwards run till they meet mine, That perfect likeness, which endears Things unto things, might us combine? Our ages so in date agree, That twins do differ more than we.

There are two births; the one when light First strikes the new awakened sense; The other when two souls unite, And we must count our life from thence: When you loved me and I loved you Then both of us were born anew.

Love then to us new souls did give And in those souls did plant new powers; Since when another life we live, The breath we breathe is his, not ours: Love makes those young whom age doth chill, And whom he finds young keeps young still.

Love, like that angel that shall call Our bodies from the silent grave, Unto one age doth raise us all; None too much, none too little have; Nay, that the difference may be none, He makes two, not alike, but one.

And now since you and I are such, Tell me what's yours, and what is mine? Our eyes, our ears, our taste, smell, touch, Do, like our souls, in one combine; So, by this, I as well may be Too old for you, as you for me.

William Cartwright [1611-1643]



"I'll NEVER LOVE THEE MORE"

My dear and only Love, I pray This little world of thee Be governed by no other sway Than purest monarchy; For if confusion have a part, Which virtuous souls abhor, And hold a synod in thy heart, I'll never love thee more.

Like Alexander I will reign, And I will reign alone; My thoughts did evermore disdain A rival on my throne. He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, That dares not put it to the touch To gain or lose it all.

But I must rule and govern still, And always give the law, And have each subject at my will And all to stand in awe. But 'gainst my batteries if I find Thou kick, or vex me sore, As that thou set me up a blind, I'll never love thee more!

Or in the empire of thy heart, Where I should solely be, If others do pretend a part And dare to vie with me, Or if committees thou erect, And go on such a score, I'll laugh and sing at thy neglect, And never love thee more.

But if thou wilt be faithful, then, And constant of thy word, I'll make thee glorious by my pen And famous by my sword; I'll serve thee in such noble ways Were never heard before; I'll crown and deck thee all with bays, And love thee evermore.

James Graham [1612-1650]



TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON

When Love with unconfined wings Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates; When I lie tangled in her hair And fettered to her eye, The birds that wanton in the air Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses bound, Our hearts with loyal flames; When thirsty grief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free— Fishes that tipple in the deep Know no such liberty.

When, like committed linnets, I With shriller throat shall sing The sweetness, mercy, majesty, And glories of my King; When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be, Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage; If I have freedom in my love And in my soul am free, Angels alone, that soar above, Enjoy such liberty.

Richard Lovelace [1618-1658]



WHY I LOVE HER

'Tis not her birth, her friends, nor yet her treasure, Nor do I covet her for sensual pleasure, Nor for that old morality Do I love her, 'cause she loves me.

Sure he that loves his lady 'cause she's fair, Delights his eye, so loves himself, not her. Something there is moves me to love, and I Do know I love, but know not how, nor why.

Alexander Brome [1620-1666]



TO HIS COY MISTRESS

Had we but world enough, and time, This coyness, Lady, were no crime. We would sit down and think which way To walk and pass our long love's day. Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the Flood, And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow; An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart. For, Lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate. But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found, Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song: then worms shall try That long preserved virginity, And your quaint honor turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust: The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace. Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may, And now, like amorous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour Than languish in his slow-chapt power. Let us roll all our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball, And tear our pleasures with rough strife Through the iron gates of life: Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.

Andrew Marvell [1621-1678]



A DEPOSITION FROM BEAUTY

Though when I loved thee thou wert fair, Thou art no longer so; These glories all the pride they wear Unto opinion owe. Beauties, like stars, in borrowed luster shine; And 'twas my love that gave thee thine.

The flames that dwelt within thine eye Do now with mine expire; Thy brightest graces fade and die At once with my desire. Love's fires thus mutual influence return; Thine cease to shine, when mine to burn.

Then, proud Celinda, hope no more To be implored or wooed, Since by thy scorn thou dost restore Thy wealth my love bestowed: And thy despised disdain too late shall find That none are fair but who are kind.

Thomas Stanley [1625-1678]



"LOVE IN THY YOUTH, FAIR MAID"

Love in thy youth, fair maid, be wise, Old Time will make thee colder, And though each morning new arise, Yet we each day grow older.

Thou as heaven art fair and young, Thine eyes like twin stars shining; But ere another day be sprung, All these will be declining;

Then winter comes with all his fears, And all thy sweets shall borrow; Too late then wilt thou shower thy tears, And I, too late, shall sorrow.

Unknown



TO CELIA

When, Celia, must my old day set, And my young morning rise In beams of joy so bright as yet Ne'er blessed a lover's eyes? My state is more advanced than when I first attempted thee: I sued to be a servant then, But now to be made free.

I've served my time faithful and true, Expecting to be placed In happy freedom, as my due, To all the joys thou hast: Ill husbandry in love is such A scandal to love's power, We ought not to misspend so much As one poor short-lived hour.

Yet think not, sweet, I'm weary grown, That I pretend such haste; Since none to surfeit e'er was known Before he had a taste: My infant love could humbly wait When, young, it scarce knew how To plead; but grown to man's estate, He is impatient now.

Charles Cotton [1630-1687]



TO CELIA

Not, Celia, that I juster am Or better than the rest! For I would change each hour, like them, Were not my heart at rest.

But I am tied to very thee By every thought I have; Thy face I only care to see, Thy heart I only crave.

All that in woman is adored In thy dear self I find— For the whole sex can but afford The handsome and the kind.

Why then should I seek further store, And still make love anew? When change itself can give no more, 'Tis easy to be true!

Charles Sedley [1639-1701]



A SONG

My dear mistress has a heart Soft as those kind looks she gave me; When with love's restless art, And her eyes, she did enslave me. But her constancy's so weak, She's so wild and apt to wander, That my jealous heart would break Should we live one day asunder.

Melting joys about her move, Killing pleasures, wounding blisses; She can dress her eyes in love, And her lips can arm with kisses. Angels listen when she speaks; She's my delight, all mankind's wonder; But my jealous heart would break Should we live one day asunder.

John Wilmot [1647-1680]



LOVE AND LIFE

All my past life is mine no more; The flying hours are gone, Like transitory dreams given o'er, Whose images are kept in store By memory alone.

The time that is to come is not; How can it then be mine? The present moment's all my lot; And that, as fast as it is got, Phillis, is only thine.

Then talk not of inconstancy, False hearts, and broken vows; If I by miracle can be This live-long minute true to thee, 'Tis all that Heaven allows.

John Wilmot [1647-1680]



CONSTANCY

I cannot change as others do, Though you unjustly scorn; Since that poor swain that sighs for you For you alone was born. No, Phillis, no; your heart to move A surer way I'll try; And, to revenge my slighted love, Will still live on, will still live on and die.

When, killed with grief, Amyntas lies, And you to mind shall call The sighs that now unpitied rise, The tears that vainly fall— That welcome hour that ends this smart, Will then begin your pain; For such a faithful tender heart Can never break, can never break in vain.

John Wilmot [1647-1680]



SONG

Too late, alas! I must confess, You need not arts to move me; Such charms by nature you possess, 'Twere madness not to love ye.

Then spare a heart you may surprise, And give my tongue the glory To boast, though my unfaithful eyes Betray a tender story.

John Wilmot [1647-1680]



SONG

Come, Celia, let's agree at last To love and live in quiet; Let's tie the knot so very fast That time shall ne'er untie it. Love's dearest joys they never prove, Who free from quarrels live; 'Tis sure a god like part of love Each other to forgive.

When least I seemed concerned I took No pleasure, nor had rest; And when I feigned an angry look, Alas! I loved you best. Say but the same to me, you'll find How blest will be our fate; Sure to be grateful, to be kind, Can never be too late.

John Sheffield [1648-1721]



THE ENCHANTMENT

I did but look and love awhile, 'Twas but for one half-hour; Then to resist I had no will, And now I have no power.

To sigh and wish is all my ease; Sighs which do heat impart Enough to melt the coldest ice, Yet cannot warm your heart.

O would your pity give my heart One corner of your breast, 'Twould learn of yours the winning art, And quickly steal the rest.

Thomas Otway [1652-1685]



SONG

Only tell her that I love: Leave the rest to her and Fate: Some kind planet from above May perhaps her pity move: Lovers on their stars must wait.— Only tell her that I love!

Why, O why should I despair! Mercy's pictured in her eye: If she once vouchsafe to hear, Welcome Hope and farewell Fear! She's too good to let me die.— Why, O why should I despair?

John Cutts [1661-1707]



"FALSE THOUGH SHE BE"

False though she be to me and love, I'll ne'er pursue revenge; For still the charmer I approve, Though I deplore her change.

In hours of bliss we oft have met: They could not always last; And though the present I regret, I'm grateful for the past.

William Congreve [1670-1729]



TO SILVIA From "The Cautious Lovers"

Silvia, let us from the crowd retire, For what to you and me (Who but each other do desire) Is all that here we see?

Apart we'll live, though not alone; For who alone can call Those who in deserts live with one If in that one they've all?

The world a vast meander is, Where hearts confusedly stray; Where few do hit, whilst thousands miss, The happy mutual way.

Anne Finch [?—1720]



"WHY, LOVELY CHARMER"

Why, lovely charmer, tell me why, So very kind, and yet so shy? Why does that cold, forbidding air Give damps of sorrow and despair? Or why that smile my soul subdue, And kindle up my flames anew?

In vain you strive with all your art, By turns to fire and freeze my heart; When I behold a face so fair, So sweet a look, so soft an air, My ravished soul is charmed all o'er, I cannot love thee less or more.

Unknown



AGAINST INDIFFERENCE

More love or more disdain I crave; Sweet, be not still indifferent: O send me quickly to my grave, Or else afford me more content! Or love or hate me more or less, For love abhors all lukewarmness.

Give me a tempest if 'twill drive Me to the place where I would be; Or if you'll have me still alive, Confess you will be kind to me. Give hopes of bliss or dig my grave: More love or more disdain I crave.

Charles Webbe [c. 1678]



A SONG TO AMORET

If I were dead, and, in my place, Some fresher youth designed To warm thee, with new fires; and grace Those arms I left behind:

Were he as faithful as the Sun, That's wedded to the Sphere; His blood as chaste and temperate run, As April's mildest tear;

Or were he rich; and, with his heap And spacious share of earth, Could make divine affection cheap, And court his golden birth;

For all these arts, I'd not believe (No! though he should be thine!), The mighty Amorist could give So rich a heart as mine!

Fortune and beauty thou might'st find, And greater men than I; But my true resolved mind They never shall come nigh.

For I not for an hour did love, Or for a day desire, But with my soul had from above This endless holy fire.

Henry Vaughan [1622-1695]



THE LASS OF RICHMOND HILL

On Richmond Hill there lives a lass More bright than May-day morn, Whose charms all other maids surpass,— A rose without a thorn.

This lass so neat, with smiles so sweet, Has won my right good-will; I'd crowns resign to call her mine, Sweet lass of Richmond Hill.

Ye zephyrs gay, that fan the air, And wanton through the grove, O, whisper to my charming fair, I die for her I love.

How happy will the shepherd be Who calls this nymph his own! O, may her choice be fixed on me! Mine's fixed on her alone.

James Upton [1670-1749]



SONG From "Sunday Up the River"

Let my voice ring out and over the earth, Through all the grief and strife, With a golden joy in a silver mirth: Thank God for life!

Let my voice swell out through the great abyss To the azure dome above, With a chord of faith in the harp of bliss: Thank God for Love!

Let my voice thrill out beneath and above, The whole world through: O my Love and Life, O my Life and Love, Thank God for you!

James Thomson [1834-1882]



GIFTS From "Sunday Up the River"

Give a man a horse he can ride, Give a man a boat he can sail; And his rank and wealth, his strength and health, On sea nor shore shall fail.

Give a man a pipe he can smoke, Give a man a book he can read: And his home is bright with a calm delight, Though the room be poor indeed.

Give a man a girl he can love, As I, O my love, love thee; And his heart is great with the pulse of Fate, At home, on land, on sea.

James Thomson [1834-1882]



AMYNTA

My sheep I neglected, I broke my sheep-crook, And all the gay haunts of my youth I forsook; No more for Amynta fresh garlands I wove; For ambition, I said would soon cure me of love.

Oh, what had my youth with ambition to do? Why left I Amynta? Why broke I my vow? Oh, give me my sheep, and my sheep-hook restore, And I'll wander from love and Amynta no more.

Through regions remote in vain do I rove, And bid the wide ocean secure me from love! O fool! to imagine that aught could subdue A love so well founded, a passion so true!

Alas! 'tis too late at thy fate to repine; Poor shepherd, Amynta can never be thine: Thy tears are all fruitless, thy wishes are vain, The moments neglected return not again.

Gilbert Elliot [1722-1777]



"O NANCY! WILT THOU GO WITH ME"

O Nancy, wilt thou go with me, Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town: Can silent glens have charms for thee, The lowly cot, the russet gown? No longer dressed in silken sheen, No longer decked with jewels rare, Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

O Nancy! when thou'rt far away, Wilt thou not cast a wish behind? Say, canst thou face the parching ray, Nor shrink before the wintry wind? O! can that soft and gentle mien Extremes of hardship learn to bear, Nor, sad, regret each courtly scene Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

O Nancy! canst thou love so true, Through perils keen with me to go, Or when thy swain mishap shall rue, To share with him the pang of woe? Say, should disease or pain befall, Wilt thou assume the nurse's care; Nor wistful those gay scenes recall Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

And when at last thy love shall die, Wilt thou receive his parting breath? Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh, And cheer with smiles the bed of death? And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay Strew flowers and drop the tender tear? Nor then regret those scenes so gay Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

Thomas Percy [1729-1811]



CAVALIER'S SONG

If doughty deeds my lady please, Right soon I'll mount my steed; And strong his arm and fast his seat, That bears frae me the meed. I'll wear thy colors in my cap, Thy picture in my heart; And he that bends not to thine eye Shall rue it to his smart! Then tell me how to woo thee, Love; O tell me how to woo thee! For thy dear sake nae care I'll take, Though ne'er another trow me.

If gay attire delight thine eye I'll dight me in array; I'll tend thy chamber door all night, And squire thee all the day. If sweetest sounds can win thine ear, These sounds I'll strive to catch; Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysel', That voice that nane can match. Then tell me how to woo thee, Love; O tell me how to woo thee! For thy dear sake nae care I'll take Though ne'er another trow me.

But if fond love thy heart can gain, I never broke a vow; Nae maiden lays her skaith to me, I never loved but you. For you alone I ride the ring, For you I wear the blue; For you alone I strive to sing, O tell me how to woo! Then tell me how to woo thee, Love; O tell me how to woo thee! For thy dear sake nae care I'll take Though ne'er another trow me.

Robert Cunninghame-Graham [?—1797?]



"MY HEART IS A LUTE"

Alas, that my heart is a lute, Whereon you have learned to play! For a many years it was mute, Until one summer's day You took it, and touched it, and made it thrill, And it thrills and throbs, and quivers still!

I had known you, dear, so long! Yet my heart did not tell me why It should burst one morn into song, And wake to new life with a cry, Like a babe that sees the light of the sun, And for whom this great world has just begun.

Your lute is enshrined, cased in, Kept close with love's magic key, So no hand but yours can win And wake it to minstrelsy; Yet leave it not silent too long, nor alone, Lest the strings should break, and the music be done.

Anne Barnard [1750-1825]



SONG From "The Duenna"

Had I a heart for falsehood framed, I ne'er could injure you; For though your tongue no promise claimed, Your charms would make me true: Then, lady, dread not here deceit, Nor fear to suffer wrong, For friends in all the aged you'll meet, And lovers in the young.

But when they find that you have blessed Another with your heart, They'll bid aspiring passion rest, And act a brother's part: Then, lady, dread not here deceit Nor fear to suffer wrong; For friends in all the aged you'll meet, And brothers in the young.

Richard Brinsley Sheridan [1751-1816]



MEETING

My Damon was the first to wake The gentle flame that cannot die; My Damon is the last to take The faithful bosom's softest sigh: The life between is nothing worth, O cast it from thy thought away! Think of the day that gave it birth, And this its sweet returning day.

Buried be all that has been done, Or say that naught is done amiss; For who the dangerous path can shun In such bewildering world as this? But love can every fault forgive, Or with a tender look reprove; And now let naught in memory live But that we meet, and that we love.

George Crabbe [1754-1832]



"O WERE MY LOVE YON LILAC FAIR"

O were my Love yon lilac fair, Wi' purple blossoms to the spring, And I a bird to shelter there, When wearied on my little wing; How I wad mourn when it was torn By autumn wild and winter rude! But I wad sing on wanton wing When youthfu' May its bloom renewed.

O gin my Love were yon red rose That grows upon the castle wa', And I mysel a drap o' dew, Into her bonnie breast to fa'; O there, beyond expression blest, I'd feast on beauty a' the night; Sealed on her silk-saft faulds to rest, Till fleyed awa' by Phoebus' light.

Robert Burns [1759-1796]



"BONNIE WEE THING"

Bonnie wee thing! cannie wee thing! Lovely wee thing! wert thou mine, I wad wear thee in my bosom, Lest my jewel I should tine. Wishfully I look, and languish In that bonnie face o' thine; And my heart it stounds wi' anguish, Lest my wee thing be na mine.

Wit and grace, and love and beauty, In ae constellation shine; To adore thee is my duty, Goddess o' this soul o' mine! Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, I wad wear thee in my bosom, Lest my jewel I should tine.

Robert Burns [1759-1796]



ROSE AYLMER

Ah, what avails the sceptered race! Ah, what the form divine! What every virtue, every grace! Rose Aylmer, all were thine.

Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes May weep, but never see, A night of memories and sighs I consecrate to thee.

Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]



"TAKE BACK THE VIRGIN PAGE" Written On Returning A Blank Book

Take back the Virgin Page White and unwritten still; Some hand more calm and sage The leaf must fill. Thoughts came as pure as light— Pure as even you require: But oh! each word I write Love turns to fire.

Yet let me keep the book: Oft shall my heart renew, When on its leaves I look, Dear thoughts of you. Like you, 'tis fair and bright; Like you, too bright and fair To let wild passion write One wrong wish there.

Haply, when from those eyes Far, far away I roam, Should calmer thoughts arise Towards you and home; Fancy may trace some line Worthy those eyes to meet, Thoughts that not burn, but shine. Pure, calm, and sweet.

And as o'er ocean far Seamen their records keep, Led by some hidden star Through the cold deep; So may the words I write Tell through what storms I stray, You still the unseen light Guiding my way.

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]



"BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHARMS"

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, Which I gaze on so fondly to-day, Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, Like fairy-gifts fading away, Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art, Let thy loveliness fade as it will, And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart Would entwine itself verdantly still.

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear, That the fervor and faith of a soul may be known, To which time will but make thee more dear! No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets, But as truly loves on to the close, As the sunflower turns to her god when he sets The same look which she turned when he rose!

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]



THE NUN

If you become a nun, dear, A friar I will be; In any cell you run, dear, Pray look behind for me. The roses all turn pale, too; The doves all take the veil, too; The blind will see the show; What! you become a nun, my dear, I'll not believe it, no!

If you become a nun, dear, The bishop Love will be: The Cupids every one, dear, Will chant, "We trust in thee!" The incense will go sighing, The candles fall a-dying, The water turn to wine: What! you go take the vows, my dear? You may—but they'll be mine.

Leigh Hunt [1784-1859]



ONLY OF THEE AND ME

Only of thee and me the night wind sings, Only of us the sailors speak at sea, The earth is filled with wondered whisperings Only of thee and me.

Only of thee and me the breakers chant, Only of us the stir in bush and tree; The rain and sunshine tell the eager plant Only of thee and me.

Only of thee and me, till all shall fade; Only of us the whole world's thoughts can be— For we are Love, and God Himself is made Only of thee and me.

Louis Untermeyer [1885-



TO——

One word is too often profaned For me to profane it, One feeling too falsely disdained For thee to disdain it. One hope is too like despair For prudence to smother, And Pity from thee more dear Than that from another.

I can give not what men call love; But wilt thou accept not The worship the heart lifts above And the Heavens reject not: The desire of the moth for the star, Of the night for the morrow, The devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow?

Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822]



FROM THE ARABIC

My faint spirit was sitting in the light Of thy looks, my love; It panted for thee like the hind at noon For the brooks, my love. Thy barb, whose hoofs outspeed the tempest's flight, Bore thee far from me; My heart, for my weak feet were weary soon, Did companion thee.

Ah! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed, Or the death they bear, The heart which tender thought clothes like a dove With the wings of care; In the battle, in the darkness, in the need, Shall mine cling to thee, Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love, It may bring to thee.

Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822]



THE WANDERING KNIGHT'S SONG

My ornaments are arms, My pastime is in war, My bed is cold upon the wold, My lamp yon star.

My journeyings are long, My slumbers short and broken; From hill to hill I wander still, Kissing thy token.

I ride from land to land, I sail from sea to sea; Some day more kind I fate may find, Some night, kiss thee.

John Gibson Lockhart [1794-1854]



SONG

Love's on the highroad, Love's in the byroad— Love's on the meadow, and Love's in the mart! And down every byway Where I've taken my way I've met Love a-smiling—for Love's in my heart!

Dana Burnet [1888-



THE SECRET LOVE

You and I have found the secret way, None can bar our love or say us nay: All the world may stare and never know You and I are twined together so.

You and I for all his vaunted width Know the giant Space is but a myth; Over miles and miles of pure deceit You and I have found our lips can meet.

You and I have laughed the leagues apart In the soft delight of heart to heart. If there's a gulf to meet or limit set, You and I have never found it yet.

You and I have trod the backward way To the happy heart of yesterday, To the love we felt in ages past. You and I have found it still to last.

You and I have found the joy had birth In the angel childhood of the earth, Hid within the heart of man and maid. You and I of Time are not afraid.

You and I can mock his fabled wing, For a kiss is an immortal thing. And the throb wherein those old lips met Is a living music in us yet.

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



THE FLOWER OF BEAUTY

Sweet in her green dell the flower of beauty slumbers, Lulled by the faint breezes sighing through her hair; Sleeps she, and hears not the melancholy numbers Breathed to my sad lute amid the lonely air?

Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is teeming To wind round the willow-banks that lure him from above: Oh that, in tears from my rocky prison streaming, I too could glide to the bower of my love!

Ah, where the woodbines with sleepy arms have wound her, Opes she her eyelids at the dream of my lay, Listening like the dove, while the fountains echo round her, To her lost mate's call in the forest far away?

Come, then, my bird! for the peace thou ever bearest, Still Heaven's messenger of comfort be to me; Come! this fond bosom, my faithfulest, my fairest, Bleeds with its death-wound,—but deeper yet for thee.

George Darley [1795-1846]



MY SHARE OF THE WORLD

I am jealous: I am true: Sick at heart for love of you, O my share of the world! I am cold, O, cold as stone To all men save you alone.

Seven times slower creeps the day When your face is far away, O my share of the world! Seven times darker falls the night. When you gladden not my sight.

Measureless my joy and pride Would you choose me for your bride, O my share of the world! For your face is my delight, Morn and even, noon and night.

To the dance and to the wake Still I go but for your sake, O my share of the world! Just to see your face awhile Meet your eyes and win your smile.

And the gay word on my lip Never lets my secret slip To my share of the world! Light my feet trip over the green— But my heart cries in the keen!

My poor mother sighs anew When my looks go after you, O my share of the world! And my father's brow grows black When you smile and turn your back.

I would part with wealth and ease, I would go beyond the seas, For my share of the world! I would leave my hearth and home If he only whispered "Come!"

Houseless under sun and dew, I would beg my bread with you, O my share of the world! Houseless in the snow and storm, Your heart's love would keep me warm.

I would pray and I would crave To be with you in the grave, O my share of the world! I would go through fire and flood, I would give up all but God For my share of the world!

Alice Furlong [1875-



SONG

A lake and a fairy boat To sail in the moonlight clear,— And merrily we would float From the dragons that watch us here!

Thy gown should be snow-white silk, And strings of orient pearls, Like gossamers dipped in milk, Should twine with thy raven curls.

Red rubies should deck thy hands, And diamonds be thy dower— But fairies have broke their wands, And wishing has lost its power!

Thomas Hood [1799-1845]



"SMILE AND NEVER HEED ME"

Though, when other maids stand by, I may deign thee no reply, Turn not then away, and sigh,— Smile, and never heed me!

If our love, indeed, be such As must thrill at every touch, Why should others learn as much?— Smile, and never heed me!

Even if, with maiden pride, I should bid thee quit my side, Take this lesson for thy guide,— Smile, and never heed me!

But when stars and twilight meet, And the dew is falling sweet, And thou hear'st my coming feet,— Then—thou then—mayst heed me!

Charles Swain [1801-1874]



ARE THEY NOT ALL MINISTERING SPIRITS?

We see them not—we cannot hear The music of their wing— Yet know we that they sojourn near, The Angels of the spring!

They glide along this lovely ground When the first violet grows; Their graceful hands have just unbound The zone of yonder rose.

I gather it for thy dear breast, From stain and shadow free: That which an Angel's touch hath blest Is meet, my love, for thee!

Robert Stephen Hawker [1803-1875]



MAIDEN EYES

You never bade me hope, 'tis true; I asked you not to swear: But I looked in those eyes of blue, And read a promise there.

The vow should bind, with maiden sighs That maiden lips have spoken: But that which looks from maiden eyes Should last of all be broken.

Gerald Griffin [1803-1840]



HALLOWED PLACES

I pass my days among the quiet places Made sacred by your feet. The air is cool in the fresh woodland spaces, The meadows very sweet.

The sunset fills the wide sky with its splendor, The glad birds greet the night; I stop and listen for a voice strong, tender, I wait those dear eyes' light.

You are the heart of every gleam of glory, Your presence fills the air, About you gathers all the fair year's story; I read you everywhere.

Alice Freeman Palmer [1855-1902]



THE LADY'S "YES"

"Yes," I answered you last night; "No," this morning, sir, I say: Colors seen by candle-light Will not look the same by day.

When the viols played their best, Lamps above, and laughs below, Love me sounded like a jest, Fit for yes or fit for no.

Call me false or call me free, Vow, whatever light may shine,— No man on your face shall see Any grief for change on mine.

Yet the sin is on us both; Time to dance is not to woo; Wooing light makes fickle troth, Scorn of me recoils on you.

Learn to win a lady's faith Nobly, as the thing is high, Bravely, as for life and death, With a loyal gravity.

Lead her from the festive boards, Point her to the starry skies, Guard her, by your truthful words, Pure from courtship's flatteries.

By your truth she shall be true, Ever true, as wives of yore; And her yes, once said to you, SHALL be Yes for evermore.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]



SONG From "The Miller's Daughter"

It is the miller's daughter, And she is grown so dear, so dear, That I would be the jewel That trembles in her ear; For hid in ringlets day and night, I'd touch her neck so warm and white.

And I would be the girdle About her dainty, dainty waist, And her heart would beat against me, In sorrow and in rest; And I should know if it beat right, I'd clasp it round so close and tight.

And I would be the necklace, And all day long to fall and rise Upon her balmy bosom With her laughter or her sighs; And I would lie so light, so light, I scarce should be unclasped at night.

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]



LILIAN

Airy, fairy Lilian, Flitting, fairy Lilian, When I ask her if she love me, Clasps her tiny hand above me, Laughing all she can; She'll not tell me if she love me, Cruel little Lilian.

When my passion seeks Pleasance in love-sighs, She, looking through and through me, Thoroughly to undo me, Smiling, never speaks: So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple, From beneath her gathered wimple Glancing with black-beaded eyes, Till the lightning laughters dimple The baby-roses in her cheeks; Then away she flies.

Prithee weep, May Lilian! Gaiety without eclipse Wearieth me, May Lilian: Through my very heart it thrilleth, When from crimson-threaded lips Silver-treble laughter thrilleth: Prithee weep, May Lilian!

Praying all I can, If prayers will not hush thee, Airy Lilian, Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee, Fairy Lilian.

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]



BUGLE SONG From "The Princess"

The splendor falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going! O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]



RONSARD TO HIS MISTRESS

"Quand vous serez bien vieille, le soir a la chandelle Assise aupres du feu devisant et filant, Direz, chantant mes vers en vous esmerveillant, Ronsard m'a celebre du temps que j'etois belle."

Some winter night, shut snugly in Beside the fagot in the hall, I think I see you sit and spin, Surrounded by your maidens all. Old tales are told, old songs are sung, Old days come back to memory; You say, "When I was fair and young, A poet sang of me!"

There's not a maiden in your hall, Though tired and sleepy ever so, But wakes, as you my name recall, And longs the history to know. And, as the piteous tale is said, Of lady cold and lover true, Each, musing, carries it to bed, And sighs and envies you!

"Our lady's old and feeble now," They'll say: "she once was fresh and fair, And yet she spurned her lover's vow, And heartless left him to despair. The lover lies in silent earth, No kindly mate the lady cheers; She sits beside a lonely hearth, With threescore and ten years!"

Ah! dreary thoughts and dreams are those, But wherefore yield me to despair, While yet the poet's bosom glows, While yet the dame is peerless fair! Sweet lady mine! while yet 'tis time Requite my passion and my truth, And gather in their blushing prime The roses of your youth!

William Makepeace Thackeray [1811-1863]



"WHEN YOU ARE OLD" After Pierre de Ronsard

When you are old and gray and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true; But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

And bending down beside the glowing bars Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

William Butler Yeats [1865-



SONG From "Pippa Passes"

You'll love me yet—and I can tarry Your love's protracted growing: June reared that bunch of flowers you carry, From seeds of April's sowing.

I plant a heartfull now: some seed At least is sure to strike, And yield—what you'll not pluck indeed, Not love, but, may be, like.

You'll look at least on love's remains, A grave's one violet: Your look?—that pays a thousand pains. What's death? You'll love me yet!

Robert Browning [1812-1889]



LOVE IN A LIFE

Room after room, I hunt the house through We inhabit together. Heart, fear nothing, for, heart, thou shalt find her— Next time, herself!—not the trouble behind her Left in the curtain, the couch's perfume! As she brushed it, the cornice-wreath blossomed anew: Yon looking-glass gleamed at the wave of her feather.

Yet the day wears, And door succeeds door; I try the fresh fortune— Range the wide house from the wing to the center. Still the same chance! she goes out as I enter. Spend my whole day in the quest,—who cares? But 'tis twilight, you see,—with such suites to explore, Such closets to search, such alcoves to importune!

Robert Browning [1812-1889]



LIFE IN A LOVE

Escape me? Never— Beloved! While I am I, and you are you, So long as the world contains us both, Me the loving and you the loth, While the one eludes, must the other pursue. My life is a fault at last, I fear: It seems too much like a fate, indeed! Though I do my best I shall scarce succeed. But what if I fail of my purpose here? It is but to keep the nerves at strain, To dry one's eyes and laugh at a fall, And, baffled, get up and begin again,— So the chase takes up one's life, that's all. While, look but once from your farthest bound At me so deep in the dust and dark, No sooner the old hope drops to ground Than a new one, straight to the self-same mark, I shape me— Ever Removed!

Robert Browning [1812-1889]



THE WELCOME

Come in the evening, or come in the morning; Come when you're looked for, or come without warning: Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you! Light is my heart since the day we were plighted; Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted; The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, And the linnets are singing, "True lovers don't sever!"

I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose them,— Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my bosom; I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire you; I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you. Oh! your step's like the rain to the summer-vexed farmer, Or saber and shield to a knight without armor; I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above me, Then, wandering, I'll wish you in silence to love me.

We'll look through the trees at the cliff and the eyrie; We'll tread round the rath on the track of the fairy; We'll look on the stars, and we'll list to the river, Till you ask of your darling what gift you can give her: Oh! she'll whisper you—"Love, as unchangeably beaming, And trust, when in secret, most tunefully streaming; Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver, As our souls flow in one down eternity's river."

So come in the evening, or come in the morning; Come when you're looked for, or come without warning: Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you! Light is my heart since the day we were plighted; Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted; The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, And the linnets are singing, "True lovers don't sever!"

Thomas Osborne Davis [1814-1845]



URANIA

She smiles and smiles, and will not sigh, While we for hopeless passion die; Yet she could love, those eyes declare, Were but men nobler than they are.

Eagerly once her gracious ken Was turned upon the sons of men; But light the serious visage grew— She looked, and smiled, and saw them through.

Our petty souls, cur strutting wits, Our labored, puny passion-fits— Ah, may she scorn them still, till we Scorn them as bitterly as she!

Yet show her once, ye heavenly Powers, One of some worthier race than ours! One for whose sake she once might prove How deeply she who scorns can love.

His eyes be like the starry lights; His voice like sounds of summer nights; In all his lovely mien let pierce The magic of the universe!

And she to him will reach her hand, And gazing in his eyes will stand, And know her friend, and weep for glee, And cry, Long, long I've looked for thee!

Then will she weep—with smiles, till then Coldly she mocks the sons of men. Till then her lovely eyes maintain Their pure, unwavering, deep disdain.

Matthew Arnold [1822-1888]



THREE SHADOWS

I looked and saw your eyes in the shadow of your hair, As a traveler sees the stream in the shadow of the wood;— And I said, "My faint heart sighs, ah me! to linger there, To drink deep and to dream in that sweet solitude."

I looked and saw your heart in the shadow of your eyes, As a seeker sees the gold in the shadow of the stream; And I said, Ah, me! what art should win the immortal prize, Whose want must make life cold and Heaven a hollow dream?"

I looked and saw your love in the shadow of your heart, As a diver sees the pearl in the shadow of the sea; And I murmured, not above my breath, but all apart,— "Ah! you can love, true girl, and is your love for me?"

Dante Gabriel Rossetti [1828-1882]



SINCE WE PARTED

Since we parted yester eve, I do love thee, love, believe, Twelve times dearer, twelve hours longer,— One dream deeper, one night stronger, One sun surer,—thus much more Than I loved thee, love, before.

Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton [1831-1891]



A MATCH

If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf, Our lives would grow together In sad or singing weather, Blown fields or flowerful closes, Green pleasure or gray grief; If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf.

If I were what the words are, And love were like the tune, With double sound and single Delight our lips would mingle, With kisses glad as birds are That get sweet rain at noon; If I were what the words are, And love were like the tune.

If you were life, my darling, And I your love were death, We'd shine and snow together Ere March made sweet the weather With daffodil and starling And hours of fruitful breath; If you were life, my darling, And I your love were death.

If you were thrall to sorrow, And I were page to joy, We'd play for lives and seasons With loving looks and treasons And tears of night and morrow And laughs of maid and boy; If you were thrall to sorrow, And I were page to joy.

If you were April's lady, And I were lord in May, We'd throw with leaves for hours And draw for days with flowers, Till day like night were shady And night were bright like day; If you were April's lady, And I were lord in May.

If you were queen of pleasure, And I were king of pain, We'd hunt down love together, Pluck out his flying-feather, And teach his feet a measure, And find his mouth a rein; If you were queen of pleasure, And I were king of pain.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]



A BALLAD OF LIFE

I found in dreams a place of wind and flowers, Full of sweet trees and color of glad grass, In midst whereof there was A lady clothed like summer with sweet hours, Her beauty, fervent as a fiery moon Made my blood burn and swoon Like a flame rained upon. Sorrow had filled her shaken eyelids' blue, And her mouth's sad red heavy rose all through Seemed sad with glad things gone.

She held a little cithern by the strings, Shaped heartwise, strung with subtle-colored hair Of some dead lute player That in dead years had done delicious things. The seven strings were named accordingly; The first string charity, The second tenderness, The rest were pleasure, sorrow, sleep, and sin, And loving kindness, that is pity's kin And is most pitiless.

There were three men with her, each garmented With gold, and shod with gold upon the feet; And with plucked ears of wheat. The first man's hair was wound upon his head: His face was red, and his mouth curled and sad; All his gold garment had Pale stains of dust and rust. A riven hood was pulled across his eyes; The token of him being upon this wise Made for a sign of Lust.

The next 'was Shame, with hollow heavy face Colored like green wood when flame kindles it. He hath such feeble feet They may not well endure in any place. His face was full of gray old miseries. And all his blood's increase Was even increase of pain. The last was Fear, that is akin to Death; He is Shame's friend, and always as Shame saith Fear answers him again.

My soul said in me: This is marvelous, Seeing the air's face is not so delicate Nor the sun's grace so great, If sin and she be kin or amorous. And seeing where maidens served her on their knees, I bade one crave of these To know the cause thereof. Then Fear said: I am Pity that was dead. And Shame said: I am Sorrow comforted. And Lust said: I am Love.

Thereat her hands began a lute-playing And her sweet mouth a song in a strange tongue; And all the while she sung There was no sound but long tears following Long tears upon men's faces, waxen white With extreme sad delight. But those three following men Became as men raised up among the dead; Great glad mouths open, and fair cheeks made red With child's blood come again.

Then I said: Now assuredly I see My lady is perfect, and transfigureth All sin and sorrow and death, Making them fair as her own eyelids be, Or lips wherein my whole soul's life abides; Or as her sweet white sides And bosom carved to kiss. Now therefore, if her pity further me, Doubtless for her sake all my days shall be As righteous as she is.

Forth, ballad, and take roses in both arms, Even till the top rose touch thee in the throat Where the least thornprick harms; And girdled in thy golden singing-coat, Come thou before my lady and say this: Borgia, thy gold hair's color burns in me, Thy mouth makes beat my blood in feverish rhymes; Therefore so many as these roses be, Kiss me so many times. Then it may be, seeing how sweet she is, That she will stoop herself none otherwise Than a blown vine-branch doth, And kiss thee with soft laughter on thine eyes, Ballad, and on thy mouth.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]



A LEAVE-TAKING

Let us go hence, my songs; she will not hear. Let us go hence together without fear; Keep silence now, for singing time is over, And over all old things and all things dear. She loves not you nor me as all we love her. Yea, though we sang as angels in her ear, She would not hear.

Let us rise up and part; she will not know. Let us go seaward as the great winds go, Full of blown sand and foam; what help is there? There is no help, for all these things are so, And all the world is bitter as a tear, And how these things are, though ye strove to show, She would not know.

Let us go home and hence; she will not weep. We gave love many dreams and days to keep, Flowers without scent, and fruits that would not grow, Saying, "If thou wilt, thrust in thy sickle and reap." All is reaped now; no grass is left to mow; And we that sowed, though all we fell on sleep, She would not weep.

Let us go hence and rest; she will not love. She shall not hear us if we sing hereof, Nor see love's ways how sore they are and steep. Come hence, let be, lie still; it is enough. Love is a barren sea, bitter and deep; And though she saw all heaven in flower above, She would not love.

Let us give up, go down; she will not care. Though all the stars made gold of all the air, And the sea moving saw before it move One moon-flower making all the foam-flowers fair; Though all those waves went over us, and drove Deep down the stifling lips and drowning hair, She would not care.

Let us go hence, go hence; she will not see. Sing all once more together; surely she, She too, remembering days and words that were, Will turn a little towards us, sighing; but we, We are hence, we are gone, as though we had not been there. Nay, and though all men seeing had pity on me, She would not see.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]



A LYRIC

There's nae lark loves the lift, my dear, There's nae ship loves the sea, There's nae bee loves the heather-bells, That loves as I love thee, my love, That loves as I love thee.

The whin shines fair upon the fell, The blithe broom on the lea: The muirside wind is merry at heart: It's a' for love of thee, my love, It's a' for love of thee.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]



MAUREEN

O, you plant the pain in my heart with your wistful eyes, Girl of my choice, Maureen! Will you drive me mad for the kisses your shy, sweet mouth denies, Maureen?

Like a walking ghost I am, and no words to woo, White rose of the West, Maureen: For it's pale you are, and the fear on you is over me too, Maureen!

Sure it's one complaint that's on us, asthore, this day, Bride of my dreams, Maureen: The smart of the bee that stung us his honey must cure, they say, Maureen!

I'll coax the light to your eyes, and the rose to your face, Mavourneen, my own Maureen! When I feel the warmth of your breast, and your nest is my arm's embrace, Maureen!

O where was the King o' the World that day—only me? My one true love, Maureen! And you the Queen with me there, and your throne in my heart, machree, Maureen!

John Todhunter [1839-?]



A LOVE SYMPHONY

Along the garden ways just now I heard the flowers speak; The white rose told me of your brow, The red rose of your cheek; The lily of your bended head, The bindweed of your hair; Each looked its loveliest and said You were more fair.

I went into the wood anon, And heard the wild birds sing, How sweet you were, they warbled on, Piped, trilled, the selfsame thing. Thrush, blackbird, linnet, without pause The burden did repeat, And still began again because You were more sweet.

And then I went down to the sea, And heard it murmuring too, Part of an ancient mystery, All made of me and you: How many a thousand years ago I loved, and you were sweet— Longer I could not stay, and so I fled back to your feet.

Arthur O'Shaughnessy [1844-1881]



LOVE ON THE MOUNTAIN

My love comes down from the mountain Through the mists of dawn; I look, and the star of the morning From the sky is gone.

My love comes down from the mountain, At dawn, dewy sweet; Did you step from the star to the mountain, O little white feet?

O whence came your twining tresses And your shining eyes, But out of the gold of the morning And the blue of the skies?

The misty mountain is burning In the sun's red fire, And the heart in my breast is burning And lost in desire.

I follow you into the valley But no word can I say; To the East or the West I will follow Till the dusk of my day.

Thomas Boyd [1867-



KATE TEMPLE'S SONG

Only a touch, and nothing more; Ah! but never so touched before! Touch of lip, was it? Touch of hand? Either is easy to understand. Earth may be smitten with fire or frost— Never the touch of true love lost.

Only a word, was it? Scarce a word! Musical whisper, softly heard, Syllabled nothing—just a breath— 'Twill outlast life and 'twill laugh at death. Love with so little can do so much— Only a word, sweet! Only a touch!

Mortimer Collins [1827-1876]



MY QUEEN

When and how shall I earliest meet her? What are the words she first will say? By what name shall I learn to greet her? I know not now; it will come some day! With the selfsame sunlight shining upon her, Shining down on her ringlets' sheen, She is standing somewhere—she I shall honor, She that I wait for, my queen, my queen!

Whether her hair be golden or raven, Whether her eyes be hazel or blue, I know not now; but 'twill be engraven Some day hence as my loveliest hue. Many a girl I have loved for a minute, Worshipped many a face I have seen: Ever and aye there was something in it, Something that could not be hers, my queen!

I will not dream of her tall and stately, She that I love may be fairy light; I will not say she must move sedately,— Whatever she does it will then be right. She may be humble or proud, my lady, Or that sweet calm which is just between; And whenever she comes she will find me ready To do her homage, my queen, my queen!

But she must be courteous, she must be holy, Pure in her spirit, this maiden I love; Whether her birth be noble or lowly I care no more than the spirits above. But I'll give my heart to my lady's keeping, And ever her strength on mine shall lean; And the stars may fall, and the saints be weeping Ere I cease to love her, my queen, my queen!

Unknown



"DARLING, TELL ME YES"

One little minute more, Maud, One little whisper more; I have a word to speak, Maud, I never breathed before. What can it be but love, Maud; And do I rightly guess 'Tis pleasant to your ear, Maud? O darling! tell me yes!