The burden of my heart, Maud, There's little need to tell; There's little need to say, Maud, I've loved you long and well. There's language in a sigh, Maud, One's meaning to express, And yours—was it for me, Maud? O darling! tell me yes!

My eyes have told my love, Maud, And on my burning cheek, You've read the tender thought, Maud, My lips refused to speak. I gave you all my heart, Maud, 'Tis needless to confess; And did you give me yours, Maud? O darling! tell me yes!

'Tis sad to starve a love, Maud, So worshipful and true; I know a little cot, Maud, Quite large enough for two; And you will be my wife, Maud? So may you ever bless Through all your sunny life, Maud, The day you answered yes!

John Godfrey Saxe [1816-1877]



"DO I LOVE THEE?"

Do I love thee? Ask the bee If she loves the flowery lea, Where the honeysuckle blows And the fragrant clover grows. As she answers, Yes or No, Darling! take my answer so.

Do I love thee? Ask the bird When her matin song is heard, If she loves the sky so fair, Fleecy cloud and liquid air. As she answers, Yes, or No, Darling! take my answer so.

Do I love thee? Ask the flower If she loves the vernal shower, Or the kisses of the sun, Or the dew, when day is done. As she answers, Yes or No, Darling! take my answer so.

John Godfrey Saxe [1816-1887]



"O WORLD, BE NOBLER"

O world be nobler, for her sake! If she but knew thee what thou art, What wrongs are borne, what deeds are done In thee, beneath thy daily sun, Know'st thou not that her tender heart For pain and very shame would break? O World, be nobler, for her sake!

Laurence Binyon [1869-



"IN THE DARK, IN THE DEW"

In the dark, in the dew, I am smiling back at you; But you cannot see the smile, And you're thinking all the while How I turn my face from you, In the dark, in the dew.

In the dark, in the dew, All my love goes out to you, Flutters like a bird in pain, Dies and comes to life again; While you whisper, "Sweetest, hark; Someone's sighing in the dark, In the dark, in the dew!"

In the dark, in the dew, All my heart cries out to you, As I cast it at your feet, Sweet indeed, but not too sweet; Wondering will you hear it beat, Beat for you, and bleed for you, In the dark, in the dew!

Mary Newmarch Prescott [1849-1888]



NANNY

Oh, for an hour when the day is breaking, Down by the shore where the tide is making, Fair as white cloud, thou, love, near me, None but the waves and thyself to hear me! Oh, to my breast how these arms would press thee! Wildly my heart in its joy would bless thee! Oh, how the soul thou has won would woo thee, Girl of the snow neck, closer to me!

Oh, for an hour as the day advances, Out where the breeze on the broom-bush dances, Watching the lark, with the sun-ray o'er us, Winging the notes of his Heaven-taught chorus! Oh, to be there, and my love before me, Soft as a moonbeam smiling o'er me! Thou would'st but love, and I would woo thee, Girl of the dark eye, closer to me!

Oh, for an hour where the sun first found us, Out in the eve with its red sheets round us, Brushing the dew from the gale's soft winglets, Pearly and sweet, with thy long dark ringlets! Oh, to be there on the sward beside thee, Telling my tale, though I know you'd chide me! Sweet were thy voice, though it should undo me,— Girl of the dark locks, closer to me!

Oh, for an hour by night or by day, love, Just as the Heavens and thou might say, love! Far from the stare of the cold-eyed many, Bound in the breath of my dove-souled Nanny! Oh, for the pure chains that have bound me, Warm from thy red lips circling round me! Oh, in my soul, as the light above me, Queen of the pure hearts, do I love thee!

Francis Davis [1810-1885]



A TRIFLE

I know not why, but even to me My songs seem sweet when read to thee.

Perhaps in this the pleasure lies— I read my thoughts within thine eyes,

And so dare fancy that my art May sink as deeply as thy heart.

Perhaps I love to make my words Sing round thee like so many birds,

Or, maybe, they are only sweet As they seem offerings at thy feet.

Or haply, Lily, when I speak, I think, perchance, they touch thy cheek,

Or with a yet more precious bliss, Die on thy red lips in a kiss.

Each reason here—-I cannot tell— Or all perhaps may solve the spell.

But if she watch when I am by, Lily may deeper see than I.

Henry Timrod [1829-1867]



ROMANCE

I will make you brooches and toys for your delight Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night. I will make a palace fit for you and me, Of green days in forests and blue days at sea.

I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room, Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom, And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night.

And this shall be for music when no one else is near The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear! That only I remember, that only you admire, Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire.

Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]



"OR EVER THE KNIGHTLY YEARS WERE GONE"

Or ever the knightly years were gone With the old world to the grave, I was a King in Babylon And you were a Christian Slave.

I saw, I took, I cast you by, I bent and broke your pride. You loved me well, or I heard them lie, But your longing was denied. Surely I knew that by and by You cursed your gods and died.

And a myriad suns have set and shone Since then upon the grave Decreed by the King in Babylon To her that had been his Slave.

The pride I trampled is now my scathe, For it tramples me again. The old resentment lasts like death, For you love, yet you refrain. I break my heart on your hard unfaith, And I break my heart in vain.

Yet not for an hour do I wish undone The deed beyond the grave, When I was a King in Babylon And you were a Virgin Slave.

William Ernest Henley [1849-1903]



RUS IN URBE

Poets are singing the whole world over Of May in melody, joys for June; Dusting their feet in the careless clover, And filling their hearts with the blackbird's tune. The "brown bright nightingale" strikes with pity The Sensitive heart of a count or clown; But where is the song for our leafy city, And where the rhymes for our lovely town?

"O for the Thames, and its rippling reaches, Where almond rushes, and breezes sport! Take me a walk under Burnham Beeches, Give me dinner at Hampton Court! Poets, be still, though your hearts I harden; We've flowers by day and have scents at dark, The limes are in leaf in the cockney garden, And lilacs blossom in Regent's Park.

"Come for a blow," says a reckless fellow, Burned red and brown by passionate sun; "Come to the downs, where the gorse is yellow; The season of kisses has just begun! Come to the fields where bluebells shiver, Hear cuckoo's carol, or plaint of dove; Come for a row on the silent river; Come to the meadows and learn to love!"

Yes, I will come when this wealth is over Of softened color and perfect tone— The lilac's better than fields of clover; I'll come when blossoming May has flown. When dust and dirt of a trampled city Have dragged the yellow laburnum down, I'll take my holiday—more's the pity— And turn my back upon London town.

Margaret! am I so wrong to love it, This misty town that your face shines through? A crown of blossom is waved above it; But heart and life of the whirl—'tis you! Margaret! pearl! I have sought and found you; And, though the paths of the wind are free, I'll follow the ways of the world around you, And build my nest on the nearest tree!

Clement Scott [1841-1904]



MY ROAD

There's a road to heaven, a road to hell, A road for the sick and one for the well; There's a road for the false and a road for the true, But the road for me is the road to you.

There's a road through prairie and forest and glen, A road to each place in human ken; There's a road over earth and a road over sea, But the road to you is the road for me.

There's a road for animal, bird, and beast, A road for the greatest, a road for the least; There's a road that is old and a road that is new, But the road for me is the road to you.

There's a road for the heart and a road for the soul, There's a road for a part and a road for the whole; There's a road for love,—which few ever see,— 'Tis the road to you and the road for me.

Oliver Opdyke [1878-



A WHITE ROSE

The red rose whispers of passion, And the white rose breathes of love; Oh, the red rose is a falcon, And the white rose is a dove.

But I send you a cream white rosebud With a flush on its petal tips; For the love that is purest and sweetest Has a kiss of desire on the lips.

John Boyle O'Reilly [1844-1890]



"SOME DAY OF DAYS"

Some day, some day of days, threading the street With idle, heedless pace, Unlooking for such grace I shall behold your face! Some day, some day of days, thus may we meet.

Perchance the sun may shine from skies of May, Or winter's icy chill Touch whitely vale and hill. What matter? I shall thrill Through every vein with summer on that day.

Once more life's perfect youth will all come back, And for a moment there I shall stand fresh and fair, And drop the garment care; Once more my perfect youth will nothing lack.

I shut my eyes now, thinking how 'twill be— How face to face each soul Will slip its long control, Forget the dismal dole Of dreary Fate's dark, separating sea;

And glance to glance, and hand to hand in greeting, The past with all its fears, Its silences and tears, Its lonely, yearning years, Shall vanish in the moment of that meeting.

Nora Perry [1832-1896]



THE TELEPHONE

"When I was just as far as I could walk From here to-day, There was an hour All still When leaning with my head against a flower I heard you talk. Don't say I didn't, for I heard you say— You spoke from that flower on the window sill— Do you remember what it was you said?"

"First tell me what it was you thought you heard."

"Having found the flower and driven a bee away, I leaned my head, And holding by the stalk, I listened and I thought I caught the word— What was it? Did you call me by my name? Or did you say— Someone said 'Come'—I heard it as I bowed."

"I may have thought as much, but not aloud."

"Well, so I came."

Robert Frost [1875-



WHERE LOVE IS

By the rosy cliffs of Devon, on a green hill's crest, I would build me a house as a swallow builds its nest; I would curtain it with roses, and the wind should breathe to me The sweetness of the roses and the saltness of the sea.

Where the Tuscan olives whiten in the hot blue day, I would hide me from the heat in a little hut of gray, While the singing of the husbandmen should scale my lattice green From the golden rows of barley that the poppies blaze between.

Narrow is the street, Dear, and dingy are the walls Wherein you wait my coming as the twilight falls. All day with dreams I gild the grime till at your step I start— Ah Love, my country in your arms—my home upon your heart!

Amelia Josephine Burr [1878-



THAT DAY YOU CAME

Such special sweetness was about That day God sent you here, I knew the lavender was out, And it was mid of year.

Their common way the great winds blew, The ships sailed out to sea; Yet ere that day was spent I knew Mine own had come to me.

As after song some snatch of tune Lurks still in grass or bough, So, somewhat of the end o' June Lurks in each weather now.

The young year sets the buds astir, The old year strips the trees; But ever in my lavender I hear the brawling bees.

Lizette Woodworth Reese [1856-1935]



AMANTIUM IRAE

When this, our rose, is faded, And these, our days, are done, In lands profoundly shaded From tempest and from sun: Ah, once more come together, Shall we forgive the past, And safe from worldly weather Possess our souls at last?

Or in our place of shadows Shall still we stretch a hand To green, remembered meadows, Of that old pleasant land? And vainly there foregathered, Shall we regret the sun? The rose of love, ungathered? The bay, we have not won?

Ah, child! the world's dark marges May lead to Nevermore, The stately funeral barges Sail for an unknown shore, And love we vow to-morrow, And pride we serve to-day: What if they both should borrow Sad hues of yesterday?

Our pride! Ah, should we miss it, Or will it serve at last? Our anger, if we kiss it, Is like a sorrow past. While roses deck the garden, While yet the sun is high, Doff sorry pride: for pardon, Or ever love go by.

Ernest Dowson [1867-1900]



IN A ROSE GARDEN

A hundred years from now, dear heart, We shall not care at all. It will not matter then a whit, The honey or the gall. The summer days that we have known Will all forgotten be and flown; The garden will be overgrown Where now the roses fall.

A hundred years from now, dear heart, We shall not mind the pain; The throbbing crimson tide of life Will not have left a stain. The song we sing together, dear, The dream we dream together here, Will mean no more than means a tear Amid a summer rain.

A hundred years from now, dear heart, The grief will all be o'er; The sea of care will surge in vain Upon a careless shore. These glasses we turn down to-day Here at the parting of the way— We shall be wineless then as they, And shall not mind it more.

A hundred years from now, dear heart, We'll neither know nor care What came of all life's bitterness, Or followed love's despair. Then fill the glasses up again, And kiss me through the rose-leaf rain; We'll build one castle more in Spain, And dream one more dream there.

John Bennett [1865-



"GOD BLESS YOU, DEAR, TO-DAY"

If there be graveyards in the heart From which no roses spring, A place of wrecks and old gray tombs From which no birds take wing, Where linger buried hopes and dreams Like ghosts among the graves, Why, buried hopes are dismal things, And lonely ghosts are knaves!

If there come dreary winter days, When summer roses fall And lie, forgot, in withered drifts Along the garden wall; If all the wreaths a lover weaves Turn thorns upon the brow,— Then out upon the silly fool Who makes not merry now!

For if we cannot keep the past, Why care for what's to come? The instant's prick is all that stings, And then the place is numb. If Life's a lie, and Love's a cheat, As I have heard men say, Then here's a health to fond deceit— God bless you, dear, to-day!

John Bennett [1865-



TO-DAY

I bring you all my olden days, My childhood's morning glow; I love you down the meadow ways Where early blossoms blow: And up deep lanes of long-gone-by, Shining with dew-drops yet,— I wander still, till you and I Over the world are met.

I bring you all my lonely days, My heart that hungered so; I love you through the wistful haze Of autumns burning low; And on pale seas, beneath wan sky, By weary tides beset, I voyage still, till you and I Over the world are met.

I bring you all my happy days,— Armfuls of flowers—oh, I love you as the sunlight stays On mountains heaped with snow: And where the dearest dream-buds lie, With tears and dew-drops wet, I toss to-day; for you and I Over the world are met!

Benjamin R. C. Low [1880-



TO ARCADY

Across the hills of Arcady Into the Land of Song— Ah, dear, if you will go with me The way will not be long!

It will not lead through solitudes Of wind-blown woods or sea; Dear, no! the city's weariest moods May scarce veil Arcady.

'Tis in no unfamiliar land Lit by some distant star. No! Arcady is where you stand, And Song is where you are!

So walk but hand in hand with me— No road can lead us wrong; These are the hills of Arcady— Here is the Land of Song!

Charles Buxton Going [1863-



WILD WISHES

I wish, because the sweetness of your passing Makes all the earth a garden where you tread, That I might be the meanest of your roses, To pave your path with petals passion-red!

I wish, because the softness of your breathing Stirs the white jasmine at your window frame, That I might be the fragrance of a flower, To stir the night breeze with your dearest name!

I wish, because the glory of your dreaming Strews all the field of heaven with throbbing stars, That I might storm the portals of your slumber, And soar with you beyond night's golden bars!

I wish to be the day you die, Beloved, Though at its close my foolish heart must break! But most of all, I wish, my dearest darling, To be the Blessed Morning when you wake!

Ethel M. Hewitt [18—



"BECAUSE OF YOU"

Sweet have I known the blossoms of the morning Tenderly tinted to their hearts of dew: But now my flowers have found a fuller fragrance, Because of you.

Long have I worshiped in my soul's enshrining High visions of the noble and the true— Now all my aims and all my prayers are purer, Because of you.

Wise have I seen the uses of life's labor; To all its puzzles found some answering clue. But now my life has learned a nobler meaning, Because of you.

In the past days I chafed at pain and waiting, Grasping at gladness as the children do; Now it is sweet to wait and joy to suffer, Because of you.

In the long years of silences that part us Dimmed by my tears and darkened to my view, Close shall I hold my memories and my madness, Because of you.

Whether our lips shall touch or hands shall hunger, Whether our love be fed or joys be few, Life will be sweeter and more worth the living, Because of you.

Sophia Almon Hensley [1866-



THEN

I give thee treasures hour by hour, That old-time princes asked in vain, And pined for in their useless power, Or died of passion's eager pain.

I give thee love as God gives light, Aside from merit, or from prayer, Rejoicing in its own delight, And freer than the lavish air.

I give thee prayers, like jewels strung On golden threads of hope and fear; And tenderer thoughts than ever hung In a sad angel's pitying tear.

As earth pours freely to the sea Her thousand streams of wealth untold, So flows my silent life to thee, Glad that its very sands are gold.

What care I for thy carelessness? I give from depths that overflow, Regardless that their power to bless Thy spirit cannot sound or know.

Far lingering on a distant dawn, My triumph shines, more sweet than late; When, from these mortal mists withdrawn, Thy heart shall know me—I can wait.

Rose Terry Cooke [1827-1892]



THE MISSIVE

I that tremble at your feet Am a rose; Nothing dewier or more sweet Buds or blows; He that plucked me, he that threw me Breathed in fire his whole soul through me.

How the cold air is infused With the scent! See, this satin leaf is bruised— Bruised and bent, Lift me, lift the wounded blossom, Soothe it at your rosier bosom!

Frown not with averted eyes! Joy's a flower That is born a god, and dies In an hour. Take me, for the Summer closes, And your life is but a rose's.

Edmund Gosse [1849-1928]



PLYMOUTH HARBOR

Oh, what know they of harbors Who toss not on the sea! They tell of fairer havens But none so fair there be

As Plymouth town outstretching Her quiet arms to me; Her breast's broad welcome spreading From Mewstone to Penlee.

Ah, with this home-thought, darling, Come crowding thoughts of thee. Oh, what know they of harbors Who toss not on the sea!

Mrs. Ernest Radford [1858-



THE SERF'S SECRET

I know a secret, such a one The hawthorn blossoms spider-spun, The dew-damp daisies in the grass Laugh up to greet me as I pass To meet the upland sun.

It is that I would rather be The little page, on bended knee, Who stoops to gather up her train Beneath the porch-lamp's ruby rain Than hold a realm in fee.

It is that in her scornful eye, Too hid for courtly sneer to spy, I saw, one day, a look which said That I, and only I, might shed Love-light across her sky.

I know a secret, such a one The hawthorn blossoms spider-spun, The dew-damp daisies in the grass Laugh up to greet me as I pass To meet the upland sun.

William Vaughn Moody [1869-1910]



"O, INEXPRESSIBLE AS SWEET"

O, inexpressible as sweet, Love takes my voice away; I cannot tell thee when we meet What most I long to say.

But hadst thou hearing in thy heart To know what beats in mine, Then shouldst thou walk, where'er thou art, In melodies divine.

So warbling birds lift higher notes Than to our ears belong; The music fills their throbbing throats, But silence steals the song.

George Edward Woodberry [1855-1930]



THE CYCLAMEN

Over the plains where Persian hosts Laid down their lives for glory Flutter the cyclamens, like ghosts That witness to their story. Oh, fair! Oh, white! Oh, pure as snow! On countless graves how sweet they grow!

Or crimson, like the cruel wounds From which the life-blood, flowing, Poured out where now on grassy mounds The low, soft winds are blowing: Oh, fair! Oh, red! Like blood of slain; Not even time can cleanse that stain.

But when my dear these blossoms holds, All loveliness her dower, All woe and joy the past enfolds In her find fullest flower. Oh, fair! Oh, pure! Oh, white and red! If she but live, what are the dead!

Arlo Bates [1850-1918]



THE WEST-COUNTRY LOVER

Then, lady, at last thou art sick of my sighing? Good-bye! So long as I sue, thou wilt still be denying? Good-bye! Ah, well! shall I vow then to serve thee forever, And swear no unkindness our kinship can sever? Nay, nay, dear my lass! here's an end of endeavor. Good-bye!

Yet let no sweet ruth for my misery grieve thee. Good-bye! The man who has loved knows as well how to leave thee. Good-bye! The gorse is enkindled, there's bloom on the heather, And love is my joy, and so too is fair weather; I still ride abroad, though we ride not together. Good-bye!

My horse is my mate; let the wind be my master. Good-bye! Though Care may pursue, yet my hound follows faster. Good-bye! The red deer's a-tremble in coverts unbroken. He hears the hoof-thunder; he scents the death-token. Shall I mope at home, under vows never spoken? Good-bye!

The brown earth's my book, and I ride forth to read it. Good-bye! The stream runneth fast, but my will shall outspeed it. Good-bye! I love thee, dear lass, but I hate the hag Sorrow. As sun follows rain, and to-night has its morrow, So I'll taste of joy, though I steal, beg, or borrow! Good-bye!

Alice Brown [1857-



"BE YE IN LOVE WITH APRIL-TIDE"

Be ye in love with April-tide? I' faith, in love am I! For now 'tis sun, and now 'tis shower, And now 'tis frost and now 'tis flower, And now 'tis Laura laughing-eyed, And now 'tis Laura shy!

Ye doubtful days, O slower glide! Still smile and frown, O sky! Some beauty unforeseen I trace In every change of Laura's face;— Be ye in love with April-tide? I' faith, in love am I!

Clinton Scollard [1860-1932]



UNITY

Heart of my heart, the world is young: Love lies hidden in every rose! Every song that the skylark sung Once, we thought, must come to a close: Now we know the spirit of song, Song that is merged in the chant of the whole, Hand in hand as we wander along, What should we doubt of the years that roll?

Heart of my heart, we can not die! Love triumphant in flower and tree, Every life that laughs at the sky Tells us nothing can cease to be; One, we are one with a song to-day, One with the clover that scents the wold, One with the Unknown, far away, One with the stars, when earth grows old.

Heart of my heart, we are one with the wind, One with the clouds that are whirled o'er the lea, One in many, O broken and blind, One as the waves are at one with the sea! Ay! when life seems scattered apart, Darkens, ends as a tale that is told, One, we are one, O heart of my heart, One, still one, while the world grows old.

Alfred Noyes [1880-



THE QUEEN

He loves not well whose love is bold! I would not have thee come too nigh: The sun's gold would not seem pure gold Unless the sun were in the sky: To take him thence and chain him near Would make his glory disappear.

He keeps his state,—keep thou in thine, And shine upon me from afar! So shall I bask in light divine, That falls from love's own guiding star; So shall thy eminence be high, And so my passion shall not die;

But all my life shall reach its hands Of lofty longing toward thy face, And be as one who, speechless, stands In rapture at some perfect grace! My love, my hope, my all shall be To look to heaven and look to thee!

Thy eyes shall be the heavenly lights, Thy voice the gentle summer breeze,— What time it sways, on moonlit nights, The murmuring tops of leafy trees; And I shall touch thy beauteous form In June's red roses, rich and warm.

But thou thyself shall come not down From that pure region far above; But keep thy throne and wear thy crown, Queen of my heart and queen of love! A monarch in thy realm complete, And I a monarch—at thy feet!

William Winter [1836-1917]



A LOVER'S ENVY

I envy every flower that blows Beside the pathway where she goes, And every bird that sings to her, And every breeze that brings to her The fragrance of the rose.

I envy every poet's rhyme That moves her heart at eventime, And every tree that wears for her Its brightest bloom, and bears for her The fruitage of its prime.

I envy every Southern night That paves her path with moonbeams white, And silvers all the leaves for her, And in their shadow weaves for her A dream of dear delight.

I envy none whose love requires Of her a gift, a task that tires: I only long to live to her, I only ask to give to her All that her heart desires.

Henry Van Dyke [1852-1933]



STAR SONG

When sunset flows into golden glows And the breath of the night is new, Love, find afar eve's eager star— That is my thought of you.

O tear-wet eye that scans the sky Your lonely lattice through: Choose any one, from sun to sun— That is my thought of you.

And when you wake at the morning's break To rival rose and dew, The star that stays till the leaping rays— That is my thought of you.

Ay, though by day they seem away Beyond or cloud or blue, From dawn to night unquenched their light— As are my thoughts of you.

Robert Underwood Johnson [1853-



"MY HEART SHALL BE THY GARDEN"

My heart shall be thy garden. Come, my own, Into thy garden; thine be happy hours Among my fairest thoughts, my tallest flowers, From root to crowning petal, thine alone. Thine is the place from where the seeds are sown Up to the sky inclosed, with all its showers. But ah, the birds, the birds! Who shall build bowers To keep these thine? O friend, the birds have flown.

For as these come and go, and quit our pine To follow the sweet season, or, new-corners, Sing one song only from our alder-trees, My heart has thoughts, which, though thine eyes hold mine. Flit to the silent world and other summers, With wings that dip beyond the silver seas.

Alice Meynell [1853-1922]



AT NIGHT

Home, home from the horizon far and clear, Hither the soft wings sweep; Flocks of the memories of the day draw near The dovecote doors of sleep.

Oh which are they that come through sweetest light Of all these homing birds? Which with the straightest and the swiftest flight? Your words to me, your words!

Alice Meynell [1850-1922]



SONG

Song is so old, Love is so new— Let me be still And kneel to you.

Let me be still And breathe no word, Save what my warm blood Sings unheard.

Let my warm blood Sing low of you— Song is so fair, Love is so new!

Hermann Hagedorn [1882-



"ALL LAST NIGHT"

All last night I had quiet In a fragrant dream and warm: She had become my Sabbath, And round my neck, her arm.

I knew the warmth in my dreaming; The fragrance, I suppose, Was her hair about me, Or else she wore a rose.

Her hair, I think; for likest Woodruffe 'twas, when Spring Loitering down wet woodways Treads it sauntering.

No light, nor any speaking; Fragrant only and warm. Enough to know my lodging, The white Sabbath of her arm.

Lascelles Abercrombie [1881-



THE LAST WORD

When I have folded up this tent And laid the soiled thing by, I shall go forth 'neath different stars, Under an unknown sky.

And yet whatever house I find Beneath the grass or snow Will ne'er be tenantless of love Or lack the face I know.

O lips—wild roses wet with rain! Blown hair of drifted brown! O passionate eyes! O panting heart— When in that colder town

I lie, the one inhabitant, My hands across my breast, How warm through all eternity The summer of my rest!

To each frail root beneath the ground That thrusts its flower above, I shall impart a fiercer sap— I who have known your love!

And growing things will lean to me To learn what love hath won, Till I shall whisper to the dust That secret of the Sun.

Yea, though my spirit never wake To hear the voice I knew, Even an endless sleep would be Stirred by the dreams of You!

Frederic Lawrence Knowles [1869-1905]



"HEART OF MY HEART"

Heart of my heart, my life, my light! If you were lost what should I do? I dare not let you from my sight Lest Death should fall in love with you.

Such countless terrors lie in wait! The gods know well how dear you are! What if they left me desolate And plucked and set you for their star!

Then hold me close, the gods are strong, And perfect joy so rare a flower No man may hope to keep it long— And I may lose you any hour.

Then kiss me close, my star, my flower! So shall the future grant me this: That there was not a single hour We might have kissed, and did not kiss!

Unknown



MY LADDIE

Oh, my laddie, my laddie, I lo'e your very plaidie, I lo'e your very bonnet Wi' the silver buckle on it, I lo'e your collie Harry, I lo'e the kent ye carry; But oh! it's past my power to tell How much, how much I lo'e yoursel!

Oh, my dearie, my dearie, I could luik an' never weary At your een sae blue an' iaughin', That a heart o' stane wad saften, While your mouth sae proud an' curly Gars my heart gang tirlie-wirlie; But oh! yoursel, your very sel, I lo'e ten thousand times as well!

Oh! my darlin', my darlin', Let's flit whaur flits the starlin', Let's loll upo' the heather A' this bonny, bonny weather; Ye shall fauld me in your plaidie, My luve, my luve, my laddie; An' close, an' close into your ear I'll tell ye how I lo'e ye, dear.

Amelie Rives [1863-



THE SHADED POOL

A laughing knot of village maids Goes gaily tripping to the brook, For water-nymphs they mean to be, And seek some still, secluded nook. Here Laura goes, my own delight, And Colin's love, the madcap Jane, And half a score of goddesses Trip over daisies in the plain: Already now they loose their hair And peep from out the tangled gold, Or speed the flying foot to reach The brook that's only summer-cold; The lovely locks stream out behind The shepherdesses on the wing, And Laura's is the wealth I love, And Laura's is the gold I sing.

A-row upon the bank they pant, And all unlace the country shoe; Their fingers tug the garter-knots To loose the hose of varied hue. The flashing knee at last appears, The lower curves of youth and grace, Whereat the girls intently scan The mazy thickets of the place. But who's to see except the thrush Upon the wild crab-apple tree? Within his branchy haunt he sits— A very Peeping Tom is he! Now music bubbles in his throat, And now he pipes the scene in song— The virgins slipping from their robes, The cheated stockings lean and long, The swift-descending petticoat, The breasts that heave because they ran, The rounded arms, the brilliant limbs, The pretty necklaces of tan. Did ever amorous God in Greece, In search of some young mouth to kiss, By any river chance upon A sylvan scene as bright as this? But though each maid is pure and fair, For one alone my heart I bring, And Laura's is the shape I love, And Laura's is the snow I sing.

And now upon the brook's green brink, A milk-white bevy, lo, they stand, Half shy, half frightened, reaching back The beauty of a poising hand! How musical their little screams When ripples kiss their shrinking feet! And then the brook embraces all Till gold and white and water meet! Within the streamlet's soft cool arms Delight and love and gracefulness Sport till a flock of tiny waves Swamps all the beds of floating cress; And on his shining face are seen Great yellow lilies drifting down Beyond the ringing apple-tree, Beyond the empty homespun gown. Did ever Orpheus with his lute, When making melody of old, E'er find a stream in Attica So ripely full of pink and gold?

At last they climb the sloping bank And shake upon the thirsty soil A treasury of diamond-drops Not gained by aught of grimy toil. Again the garters clasp the hose, Again the velvet knee is hid, Again the breathless babble tells What Colin said, what Colin did. In grace upon the grass they lie And spread their tresses to the sun, And rival, musical as they, The blackbird's alto shake and run. Did ever Love, on hunting bent, Come idly humming through the hay, And, to his sudden joyfulness, Find fairer game at close of day? Though every maid's a lily-rose, And meet to sway a sceptred king, Yet Laura's is the face I love, And Laura's are the lips I sing.

Norman Gale [1862-

GOOD-NIGHT

Good-night. Good-night. Ah, good the night That wraps thee in its silver light. Good-night. No night is good for me That does not hold a thought of thee. Good-night.

Good-night. Be every night as sweet As that which made our love complete, Till that last night when death shall be One brief "Good-night," for thee and me. Good-night.

S. Weir Mitchell [1829-1914]



THE MYSTIC

By seven vineyards on one hill We walked. The native wine In clusters grew beside us two, For your lips and for mine,

When, "Hark!" you said,—"Was that a bell Or a bubbling spring we heard?" But I was wise and closed my eyes And listened to a bird;

For as summer leaves are bent and shake With singers passing through, So moves in me continually The winged breath of you.

You tasted from a single vine And took from that your fill— But I inclined to every kind, All seven on one hill.

Witter Bynner [1881-



"I AM THE WIND"

I am the wind that wavers, You are the certain land; I am the shadow that passes Over the sand.

I am the leaf that quivers, You the unshaken tree; You are the stars that are steadfast, I am the sea.

You are the light eternal, Like a torch I shall die... You are the surge of deep music, I—but a cry!

Zoe Akins [1886-



"I LOVE MY LIFE, BUT NOT TOO WELL"

I love my life, but not too well To give it to thee like a flower, So it may pleasure thee to dwell Deep in its perfume but an hour. I love my life, but not too well.

I love my life, but not too well To sing it note by note away, So to thy soul the song may tell The beauty of the desolate day. I love my life, but not too well.

I love my life, but not too well To cast it like a cloak on thine, Against the storms that sound and swell Between thy lonely heart and mine. I love my life, but not too well.

Harriet Monroe [1860-1936]



"THIS IS MY LOVE FOR YOU"

I have brought the wine And the folded raiment fine, Pilgrim staff and shoe— This is my love for you.

I will smooth your bed, Lay away your coverlid, Sing the whole day through. This is my love for you.

Mayhap in the night, When the dark beats back the light, I shall struggle too... This is my love for you.

In your dream, once more, Will a star lead to my door? To stars and dreams be true This is my love for you...

Grace Fallow Norton [1876-



MY LADY'S LIPS



LIPS AND EYES From "Blurt, Master Constable"

Love for such a cherry lip Would be glad to pawn his arrows; Venus here to take a sip Would sell her doves and team of sparrows. But they shall not so; Hey nonny, nonny no! None but I this lip must owe; Hey nonny, nonny no!

Did Jove see this wanton eye, Ganymede must wait no longer; Phoebe here one night did lie, Would change her face and look much younger. But they shall not so; Hey nonny, nonny no! None but I this lip must owe; Hey nonny, nonny no!

Thomas Middleton [1570?-1627]



THE KISS From "Cynthia's Revels"

O that joy so soon should waste! Or so sweet a bliss As a kiss Might not for ever last! So sugared, so melting, so soft, so delicious, The dew that lies on roses, When the morn herself discloses, Is not so precious. O, rather than I would it smother, Were I to taste such another, It should be my wishing That I might die with kissing.

Ben Jonson [1573?-1637]



"TAKE, O TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY"

Take, O take those lips away, That so sweetly were forsworn, And those eyes, the break of day, Lights that do mislead the morn; But my kisses bring again, Seals of love, but sealed in vain.

Hide, O hide those hills of snow, Which thy frozen bosom bears, On whose tops the pinks that grow Are of those that April wears! But first set my poor heart free, Bound in those icy chains by thee.

The first stanza from " Measure for Measure," by William Shakespeare [1564-1616] The second stanza from "The Bloody Brothers," by John Fletcher [1579-1625]



A STOLEN KISS

Now gentle sleep hath closed up those eyes Which, waking, kept my boldest thoughts in awe; And free access unto that sweet lip lies, From which I long the rosy breath to draw. Methinks no wrong it were, if I should steal From those two melting rubies one poor kiss; None sees the theft that would the thief reveal, Nor rob I her of aught that she can miss; Nay, should I twenty kisses take away, There would be little sign I had done so; Why then should I this robbery delay? O, she may wake, and therewith angry grow! Well if she do, I'll back restore that one, And twenty hundred thousand more for loan.

George Wither [1588-1667]



SONG

My Love bound me with a kiss That I should no longer stay; When I felt so sweet a bliss I had less power to part away: Alas! that women do not know Kisses make men loath to go.

Yes, she knows it but too well, For I heard when Venus' dove In her ear did softly tell That kisses were the seals of love: O muse not then though it be so, Kisses make men loath to go.

Wherefore did she thus inflame My desires, heat my blood, Instantly to quench the same And starve whom she had given food? Ay, ay, the common sense can show, Kisses make men loath to go.

Had she bid me go at first I would ne'er have grieved my heart Hope delayed had been the worst; But ah to kiss and then to part! How deep it struck, speak, gods! you know Kisses make men loath to go.

Unknown



TO ELECTRA

I dare not ask a kiss, I dare not beg a smile, Lest having that, or this, I might grow proud the while.

No, no, the utmost share Of my desire shall be Only to kiss that air That lately kissed thee.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]



"COME, CHLOE, AND GIVE ME SWEET KISSES"

Come, Chloe, and give me sweet kisses, For sweeter sure never girl gave; But why in the midst of my blisses, Do you ask me how many I'd have? I'm not to be stinted in pleasure, Then, prithee, my charmer, be kind, For whilst I love thee above measure, To numbers I'll ne'er be confined.

Count the bees that on Hybla are playing, Count the flowers that enamel its fields, Count the flocks that on Tempe are straying, Or the grain that rich Sicily yields, Go number the stars in the heaven, Count how many sands on the shore, When so many kisses you've given, I still shall be craving for more.

To a heart full of love, let me hold thee, To a heart that, dear Chloe, is thine; In my arms I'll for ever enfold thee, And twist round thy limbs like a vine. What joy can be greater than this is? My life on thy lips shall be spent! But the wretch that can number his kisses, With few will be ever content.

Charles Hanbury Williams [1708-1759]



A RIDDLE

I am just two and two, I am warm, I am cold, And the parent of numbers that cannot be told, I am lawful, unlawful—a duty, a fault— I am often sold dear, good for nothing when bought; An extraordinary boon, and a matter of course, And yielded with pleasure when taken by force.

William Cowper [1731-1800]



TO A KISS

Soft child of love, thou balmy bliss, Inform me, O delicious kiss, Why thou so suddenly art gone, Lost in the moment thou art won?

Yet go! For wherefore should I sigh? On Delia's lips, with raptured eye, On Delia's blushing lips I see A thousand full as sweet as thee.

John Wolcot [1738-1819]



SONG

Often I have heard it said That her lips are ruby-red. Little heed I what they say, I have seen as red as they. Ere she smiled on other men, Real rubies were they then.

When she kissed me once in play, Rubies were less bright than they, And less bright than those which shone In the palace of the Sun. Will they be as bright again? Not if kissed by other men.

Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]



THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE

Away with your fictions of flimsy romance, Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove! Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance, Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love.

Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with phantasy glow, Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove; From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow, Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love!

If Apollo should e'er his assistance refuse, Or the Nine be disposed from your service to rove, Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the muse, And try the effect of the first kiss of love.

I hate you, ye cold compositions of art! Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots reprove, I court the effusions that spring from the heart, Which throbs with delight to the first kiss of love.

Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical themes, Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move: Arcadia displays but a region of dreams; What are visions like these to the first kiss of love?

Oh! cease to affirm that man, since his birth, From Adam till now, has with wretchedness strove; Some portion of Paradise still is on earth, And Eden revives in the first kiss of love.

When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past— For years fleet away with the wings of the dove— The dearest remembrance will still be the last, Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love.

George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]



"JENNY KISSED ME"

Jenny kissed me when we met, Jumping from the chair she sat in; Time, you thief, who love to get Sweets into your list, put that in! Say I'm weary, say I'm sad, Say that health and wealth have missed me, Say I'm growing old, but add, Jenny kissed me.

Leigh Hunt [1784-1859]



"I FEAR THY KISSES, GENTLE MAIDEN"

I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden; Thou needest not fear mine; My spirit is too deeply laden Ever to burthen thine.

I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion; Thou needest not fear mine; Innocent is the heart's devotion With which I worship thine.

Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822]



LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY

The fountains mingle with the river, And the rivers with the ocean, The winds of heaven mix forever With a sweet emotion; Nothing in the world is single; All things by a law divine In one another's being mingle;— Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high heaven, And the waves clasp one another; No sister flower would be forgiven If it disdained its brother; And the sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea; What are all these kissings worth, If thou kiss not me?

Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822]



SONG From "In a Gondola"

The moth's kiss, first! Kiss me as if you made believe You were not sure, this eve, How my face, your flower, had pursed Its petals up; so, here and there You brush it, till I grow aware Who wants me, and wide ope I burst.

The bee's kiss, now! Kiss me as if you entered gay My heart at some noonday, A bud that dares not disallow The claim, so all is rendered up, And passively its shattered cup Over your head to sleep I bow.

Robert Browning [1812-1889]



SUMMUM BONUM

All the breath and the bloom of the year in the bag of one bee: All the wonder and wealth of the mine in the heart of one gem: In the core of one pearl all the shade and the shine of the sea: Breath and bloom, shade and shine,—wonder, wealth, and—how far above them— Truth, that's brighter than gem, Trust, that's purer than pearl,— Brightest truth, purest trust in the universe—all were for me In the kiss of one girl.

Robert Browning [1812-1889]



THE FIRST KISS

If only in dreams may man be fully blest, Is heaven a dream? Is she I clasped a dream? Or stood she here even now where dewdrops gleam And miles of furze shine golden down the West? I seem to clasp her still—still on my breast Her bosom beats,—I see the blue eyes beam:— I think she kissed these lips, for now they seem Scarce mine: so hallowed of the lips they pressed! Yon thicket's breath—can that be eglantine? Those birds—can they be morning's choristers? Can this be earth? Can these be banks of furze? Like burning bushes fired of God they shine! I seem to know them, though this body of mine Passed into spirit at the touch of hers!

Theodore Watts-Dunton [1836-1914]



TO MY LOVE

Kiss me softly and speak to me low; Malice has ever a vigilant ear; What if Malice were lurking near? Kiss me, dear! Kiss me softly and speak to me low.

Kiss me softly and speak to me low; Envy, too, has a watchful ear; What if Envy should chance to hear? Kiss me, dear! Kiss me softly and speak to me low,

Kiss me softly and speak to me low; Trust me, darling, the time is near When lovers may love with never a fear; Kiss me, dear! Kiss me softly and speak to me low.

John Godfrey Saxe [1816-1887]



TO LESBIA

Give me kisses! Do not stay, Counting in that careful way. All the coins your lips can print Never will exhaust the mint. Kiss me, then, Every moment—and again!

Give me kisses! Do not stop, Measuring nectar by the drop. Though to millions they amount, They will never drain the fount. Kiss me, then, Every moment—and again!

Give me kisses! All is waste Save the luxury we taste; And for kissing,—kisses live Only when we take or give. Kiss me, then, Every moment—and again!

Give me kisses! Though their worth Far exceeds the gems of earth, Never pearls so rich and pure Cost so little, I am sure. Kiss me, then, Every moment—and again!

Give me kisses! Nay, 'tis true I am just as rich as you; And for every kiss I owe, I can pay you back, you know, Kiss me, then, Every moment—and again!

John Godfrey Saxe [1816-1887]



MAKE BELIEVE

Kiss me, though you make believe; Kiss me, though I almost know You are kissing to deceive: Let the tide one moment flow Backward ere it rise and break, Only for poor pity's sake!

Give me of your flowers one leaf, Give me of your smiles one smile, Backward roll this tide of grief Just a moment, though, the while, I should feel and almost know You are trifling with my woe.

Whisper to me sweet and low; Tell me how you sit and weave Dreams about me, though I know It is only make believe! Just a moment, though 'tis plain You are jesting with my pain.

Alice Cary [1820-1871]



KISSING'S NO SIN

Some say that kissing's a sin; But I think it's nane ava, For kissing has wonn'd in this warld Since ever that there was twa.

O, if it wasna lawfu' Lawyers wadna allow it; If it wasna holy, Ministers wadna do it.

If it wasna modest, Maidens wadna tak' it; If it wasna plenty, Puir folk wadna get it.

Unknown



TO ANNE

How many kisses do I ask? Now you set me to my task. First, sweet Anne, will you tell me How many waves are in the sea? How many stars are in the sky? How many lovers you make sigh? How many sands are on the shore? I shall want just one kiss more.

William Stirling-Maxwell [1818-1878]



SONG

There is many a love in the land, my love, But never a love like this is; Then kill me dead with your love, my love, And cover me up with kisses.

So kill me dead and cover me deep Where never a soul discovers; Deep in your heart to sleep, to sleep, In the darlingest tomb of lovers.

Joaquin Miller [1839-1913]



PHILLIS AND CORYDON

Phillis took a red rose from the tangles of her hair,— Time, the Golden Age; the place, Arcadia, anywhere,—

Phillis laughed, the saucy jade: "Sir Shepherd, wilt have this, Or"—Bashful god of skipping lambs and oaten reeds!—"a kiss?"

Bethink thee, gentle Corydon! A rose lasts all night long, A kiss but slips from off your lips like a thrush's evening song.

A kiss that goes, where no one knows! A rose, a crimson rose! Corydon made his choice and took—Well, which do you suppose?

Arthur Colton [1868-



AT HER WINDOW



"HARK, HARK, THE LARK" From "Cymbeline"

Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes: With everything that pretty bin, My lady sweet, arise: Arise, arise.

William Shakespeare [1564-1616]



"SLEEP, ANGRY BEAUTY"

Sleep, angry beauty, sleep and fear not me! For who a sleeping lion dares provoke? It shall suffice me here to sit and see Those lips shut up, that never kindly spoke: What sight can more content a lover's mind Than beauty seeming harmless, if not kind?

My words have charmed her, for secure she sleeps, Though guilty much of wrong done to my love; And in her slumber, see! she close-eyed weeps: Dreams often more than waking passions move. Plead, Sleep, my cause, and make her soft like thee: That she is peace may wake and pity me.

Thomas Campion [?—1619]



MATIN SONG

Rise, Lady Mistress, rise! The night hath tedious been; No sleep hath fallen into mine eyes Nor slumbers made me sin. Is not she a saint then, say, Thoughts of whom keep sin away?

Rise, Madam! rise and give me light, Whom darkness still will cover, And ignorance, darker than night, Till thou smile on thy lover. All want day till thy beauty rise; For the gray morn breaks from thine eyes.

Nathaniel Field [1587-1633]



THE NIGHT-PIECE: TO JULIA

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, The shooting stars attend thee; And the elves also, Whose little eyes glow Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.

No Will-o'-the-wisp mislight thee, Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee; But on, on thy way Not making a stay, Since ghost there's none to affright thee.

Let not the dark thee cumber: What though the moon does slumber? The stars of the night Will lend thee their light Like tapers clear without number.

Then, Julia, let me woo thee, Thus, thus to come unto me; And when I shall meet Thy silvery feet, My soul I'll pour into thee.



Robert Herrick [1591-1674]



MORNING

The lark now leaves his watery nest, And climbing shakes his dewy wings, He takes your window for the east, And to implore your light, he sings; Awake, awake, the morn will never rise, Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.

The merchant bows unto the seaman's star, The ploughman from the sun his season takes; But still the lover wonders what they are, Who look for day before his mistress wakes; Awake, awake, break through your veils of lawn! Then draw your curtains and begin the dawn.

William D'Avenant [1606-1668]



MATIN-SONG From "The Rape of Lucrece"

Pack, clouds, away, and welcome, day, With night we banish sorrow. Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft To give my Love good-morrow! Wings from the wind to please her mind Notes from the lark I'll borrow: Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing, To give my Love good-morrow; To give my Love good-morrow Notes from them both I'll borrow.

Wake from thy nest, Robin-red-breast, Sing, birds, in every furrow; And from each hill, let music shrill Give my fair Love good-morrow! Blackbird and thrush in every bush, Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow, You pretty elves, amongst yourselves Sing my fair Love good-morrow; To give my Love good-morrow Sing, birds, in every furrow!

Thomas Heywood [?—1650?]



THE ROSE

Sweet, serene, sky-like flower, Haste to adorn her bower; From thy long-cloudy bed, Shoot forth thy damask head.

New-startled blush of Flora, The grief of pale Aurora (Who will contest no more), Haste, haste to strew her floor!

Vermilion ball that's given From lip to lip in Heaven; Love's couch's coverled, Haste, haste to make her bed.

Dear offspring of pleased Venus And jolly, plump Silenus, Haste, haste to deck the hair Of the only sweetly fair!

See! rosy is her bower, Her floor is all this flower Her bed a rosy nest By a bed of roses pressed.

But early as she dresses, Why fly you her bright tresses? Ah! I have found, I fear,— Because her cheeks are near.

Richard Lovelace [1618-1658]



SONG

See, see, she wakes! Sabina wakes! And now the sun begins to rise; Less glorious is the morn that breaks From his bright beams, than her fair eyes.

With light united, day they give; But different fates ere night fulfil; How many by his warmth will live! How many will her coldness kill!

William Congreve [1670-1729]



MARY MORISON

O Mary, at thy window be, It is the wished, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see, That make the miser's treasure poor: How blithely wad I bide the stour A weary slave frae sun to sun, Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison!

Yestreen, when to the trembling string The dance gaed through the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing, I sat, but neither heard nor saw: Though this was fair, and that was braw, And yon the toast of a' the town, I sighed, and said amang them a', "Ye arena Mary Morison."

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, Wha for thy sake wad gladly die? Or canst thou break that heart of his, Whase only faut is loving thee? If love for love thou wiltna gie, At least be pity to me shown; A thought ungentle canna be The thought o' Mary Morison.

Robert Burns [1759-1796]



WAKE, LADY!

Up! quit thy bower! late wears the hour, Long have the rooks cawed round the tower; O'er flower and tree loud hums the bee, And the wild kid sports merrily. The sun is bright, the sky is clear: Wake, lady, wake! and hasten here.

Up! maiden fair, and bind thy hair, And rouse thee in the breezy air! The lulling stream that soothed thy dream Is dancing in the sunny beam. Waste not these hours, so fresh and gay; Leave thy soft couch, and haste away!

Up! Time will tell the morning bell Its service-sound has chimed well; The aged crone keeps house alone, The reapers to the fields are gone. Lose not these hours, so cool and gay: Lo! while thou sleep'st they haste away!

Joanna Baillie [1762-1851]



THE SLEEPING BEAUTY

Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile— Though shut so close thy laughing eyes, Thy rosy lips still wear a smile And move, and breathe delicious sighs!

Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks And mantle o'er her neck of snow: Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks What most I wish—and fear to know!

She starts, she trembles, and she weeps! Her fair hands folded on her breast: —And now, how like a saint she sleeps! A seraph in the realms of rest!

Sleep on secure! Above control Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee: And may the secret of thy soul Remain within its sanctuary!

Samuel Rogers [1763-1855]



"THE YOUNG MAY MOON"

The young May moon is beaming, love, The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love; How sweet to rove Through Morna's grove, When the drowsy world is dreaming, love! Then awake!—the heavens look bright, my dear, 'Tis never too late for delight, my dear; And the best of all ways To lengthen our days Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!

Now all the world is sleeping, love, But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love, And I, whose star More glorious far Is the eye from that casement peeping, love. Then awake!—till rise of sun, my dear, The Sage's glass we'll shun, my dear, Or in watching the flight Of bodies of light He might happen to take thee for one, my dear!

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]



"ROW GENTLY HERE"

Row gently here, My gondolier, So softly wake the tide, That not an ear, On earth, may hear, But hers to whom we glide. Had Heaven but tongues to speak, as well As starry eyes to see, Oh think what tales 'twould have to tell Of wandering youths like me!

Now rest thee here, My gondolier; Hush, hush, for up I go, To climb yon light Balcony's height, While thou keep'st watch below. Ah! did we take for Heaven above But half such pains as we Take, day and night, for woman's love, What angels we should be!

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]



MORNING SERENADE

Awake! the dawn is on the hills! Behold, at her cool throat a rose, Blue-eyed and beautiful she goes, Leaving her steps in daffodils.— Awake! arise! and let me see Thine eyes, whose deeps epitomize All dawns that were or are to be, O love, all Heaven in thine eyes!— Awake! arise! come down to me!

Behold! the dawn is up: behold! How all the birds around her float, Wild rills of music, note on note, Spilling the air with mellow gold.— Arise! awake! and, drawing near, Let me but hear thee and rejoice! Thou, who keep'st captive, sweet and clear, All song, O love, within thy voice! Arise! awake! and let me hear!

See, where she comes, with limbs of day, The dawn! with wild-rose hands and feet, Within whose veins the sunbeams beat, And laughters meet of wind and ray. Arise! come down! and, heart to heart, Love, let me clasp in thee all these— The sunbeam, of which thou art part, And all the rapture of the breeze!— Arise! come down! loved that thou art!

Madison Cawein [1865-1914]



SERENADE

Softly, O midnight Hours! Move softly o'er the bowers Where lies in happy sleep a girl so fair! For ye have power, men say, Our hearts in sleep to sway, And cage cold fancies in a moonlight snare. Round ivory neck and arm Enclasp a separate charm; Hang o'er her poised, but breathe nor sigh nor prayer: Silently ye may smile, But hold your breath the while, And let the wind sweep back your cloudy hair!

Bend down your glittering urns, Ere yet the dawn returns, And star with dew the lawn her feet shall tread; Upon the air rain balm, Bid all the woods be calm, Ambrosial dreams with healthful slumbers wed; That so the Maiden may With smiles your care repay, When from her couch she lifts her golden head; Waking with earliest birds, Ere yet the misty herds Leave warm 'mid the gray grass their dusky bed.

Aubrey Thomas De Vere [1814-1902]



LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR

I arise from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are shining bright. I arise from dreams of thee, And a spirit in my feet Has led me—who knows how? To thy chamber window, sweet!

The wandering airs they faint On the dark, the silent stream; The champak odors fail Like sweet thoughts in a dream; The nightingale's complaint, It dies upon her heart, As I must die on thine, O beloved as thou art!

O lift me from the grass! I die, I faint, I fail! Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale. My cheek is cold and white, alas! My heart beats loud and fast; Oh! press it close to thine again, Where it must break at last.

Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822]



GOOD-NIGHT

Good-night? ah! no; the hour is ill Which severs those it should unite; Let us remain together still, Then it will be good night.

How can I call the lone night good, Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight? Be it not said, thought, understood, Then it will be good night.

To hearts which near each other move From evening close to morning light, The night is good; because, my love, They never say good-night.

Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822]



SERENADE From "Sylvia"

Awake thee, my lady-love, Wake thee and rise! The sun through the bower peeps Into thine eyes!

Behold how the early lark Springs from the corn! Hark, hark how the flower-bird Winds her wee horn!

The swallow's glad shriek is heard All through the air; The stock-dove is murmuring Loud as she dare!

Apollo's winged bugleman Cannot contain, But peals his loud trumpet-call Once and again!

Then wake thee, my lady-love— Bird of my bower! The sweetest and sleepiest Bird at this hour!

George Darley [1795-1846]



SERENADE

Ah, sweet, thou little knowest how I wake and passionate watches keep; And yet, while I address thee now, Methinks thou smilest in thy sleep. 'Tis sweet enough to make me weep, That tender thought of love and thee, That while the world is hushed so deep, Thy soul's perhaps awake to me!

Sleep on, sleep on, sweet bride of sleep! With golden visions for thy dower, While I this midnight vigil keep, And bless thee in thy silent bower; To me 'tis sweeter than the power Of sleep, and fairy dreams unfurled, That I alone, at this still hour, In patient love outwatch the world.

Thomas Hood [1799-1845]



SERENADE

Look out upon the stars, my love, And shame them with thine eyes, On which, than on the lights above, There hang more destinies. Night's beauty is the harmony Of blending shades and light: Then, lady, up,—look out, and be A sister to the night!

Sleep not!—thine image wakes for aye Within my watching breast; Sleep not!—from her soft sleep should fly, Who robs all hearts of rest. Nay, lady, from thy slumbers break, And make this darkness gay, With looks whose brightness well might make Of darker nights a day.

Edward Coote Pinkney [1802-1828]



SERENADE

Hide, happy damask, from the stars, What sleep enfolds behind your veil, But open to the fairy cars On which the dreams of midnight sail; And let the zephyrs rise and fall About her in the curtained gloom, And then return to tell me all The silken secrets of the room.

Ah! dearest! may the elves that sway Thy fancies come from emerald plots, Where they have dozed and dreamed all day In hearts of blue forget-me-nots. And one perhaps shall whisper thus: Awake! and light the darkness, Sweet! While thou art reveling with us, He watches in the lonely street.

Henry Timrod [1829-1867]



SERENADE From "The Spanish Student"

Stars of the summer night! Far in yon azure deeps, Hide, hide your golden light! She sleeps! My lady sleeps! Sleeps!

Moon of the summer night! Far down yon western steeps, Sink, sink in silver light! She sleeps! My lady sleeps! Sleeps!

Wind of the summer night! Where yonder woodbine creeps, Fold, fold thy pinions light! She sleeps! My lady sleeps! Sleeps!

Dreams of the summer night! Tell her, her lover keeps Watch! while in slumbers light She sleeps! My lady sleeps! Sleeps!

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882]



"COME INTO THE GARDEN, MAUD" From "Maud"

Come into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, night, has flown, Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone; And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the rose is blown.

For a breeze of morning moves, And the planet of Love is on high, Beginning to faint in the light that she loves On a bed of daffodil sky, To faint in the light of the sun she loves, To faint in his light, and to die.

All night have the roses heard The flute, violin, bassoon; All night has the casement jessamine stirred To the dancers dancing in tune; Till a silence fell with the waking bird, And a hush with the setting moon.

I said to the lily, "There is but one With whom she has heart to be gay. When will the dancers leave her alone? She is weary of dance and play." Now half to the setting moon are gone, And half to the rising day; Low on the sand and loud on the stone The last wheel echoes away.

I said to the rose, "The brief night goes In babble and revel and wine. O young lord-lover, what sighs are those, For one that will never be thine? But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose, "For ever and ever, mine."

And the soul of the rose went into my blood, As the music clashed in the hall: And long by the garden lake I stood, For I heard your rivulet fall From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, Our wood, that is dearer than all;

From the meadow your walks have left so sweet That whenever a March-wind sighs He sets the jewel-print of your feet In violets blue as your eyes, To the woody hollows in which we meet And the valleys of Paradise.

The slender acacia would not shake One long milk-bloom on the tree; The white lake-blossom fell into the lake As the pimpernel dozed on the lea; But the rose was awake all night for your sake, Knowing your promise to me; The lilies and roses were all awake, They sighed for the dawn and thee.

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, Come hither, the dances are done, In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, Queen lily and rose in one; Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, To the flowers, and be their sun.

There has fallen a splendid tear From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear; She is coming, my life, my fate; The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near"; And the white rose weeps, "She is late"; The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear"; And the lily whispers, "I wait."

She is coming my own, my sweet; Were it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear her and beat, Were it earth in an earthy bed; My dust would hear her and beat, Had I lain for a century dead; Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red.

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]



AT HER WINDOW

Ah, Minstrel, how strange is The carol you sing! Let Psyche, who ranges The garden of spring, Remember the changes December will bring.

Beating Heart! we come again Where my Love reposes: This is Mabel's window-pane; These are Mabel's roses.

Is she nested? Does she kneel In the twilight stilly, Lily clad from throat to heel, She, my virgin Lily?

Soon the wan, the wistful stars, Fading, will forsake her; Elves of light, on beamy bars, Whisper then, and wake her.

Let this friendly pebble plead At her flowery grating; If she hear me will she heed? Mabel, I am waiting.

Mabel will be decked anon, Zoned in bride's apparel; Happy zone! Oh hark to yon Passion-shaken carol!

Sing thy song, thou tranced thrush, Pipe thy best, thy clearest;— Hush, her lattice moves, oh hush— Dearest Mabel!—dearest....

Frederick Locker-Lampson [1821-1895]



BEDOUIN SONG

From the Desert I come to thee On a stallion shod with fire; And the winds are left behind In the speed of my desire. Under thy window I stand, And the midnight hears my cry: I love thee, I love but thee, With a love that shall not die Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold!

Look from thy window and see My passion and my pain; I lie on the sands below, And I faint in thy disdain. Let the night-winds touch thy brow With the heat of my burning sigh, And melt thee to hear the vow Of a love that shall not die Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold!

My steps are nightly driven, By the fever in my breast, To hear from thy lattice breathed The word that shall give me rest. Open the door of thy heart, And open thy chamber door, And my kisses shall teach thy lips The love that shall fade no more Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold!

Bayard Taylor [1825-1878]



NIGHT AND LOVE From "Ernest Maltravers"

When stars are in the quiet skies, Then most I pine for thee; Bend on me, then, thy tender eyes, As stars look on the sea!

For thoughts, like waves that glide by night, Are stillest when they shine; Mine earthly love lies hushed in light Beneath the heaven of thine.

There is an hour when angels keep Familiar watch o'er men, When coarser souls are wrapped in sleep— Sweet spirit, meet me then

There is an hour when holy dreams Through slumber fairest glide; And in that mystic hour it seems Thou shouldst be by my side.

My thoughts of thee too sacred are For daylight's common beam: I can but know thee as my star, My angel and my dream!

Edward George Earle Bulwer Lytton [1803-1873]



NOCTURNE

Up to her chamber window A slight wire trellis goes, And up this Romeo's ladder Clambers a bold white rose.

I lounge in the ilex shadows, I see the lady lean, Unclasping her silken girdle, The curtain's folds between.

She smiles on her white-rose lover, She reaches out her hand And helps him in at the window— I see it where I stand!

To her scarlet lip she holds him, And kisses him many a time— Ah, me! it was he that won her Because he dared to climb!

Thomas Bailey Aldrich [1837-1907]



PALABRAS CARINOSAS Spanish Air

Good-night! I have to say good-night To such a host of peerless things! Good-night unto the slender hand All queenly with its weight of rings; Good-night to fond, uplifted eyes, Good-night to chestnut braids of hair, Good-night unto the perfect mouth, And all the sweetness nestled there— The snowy hand detains me, then I'll have to say Good-night again!

But there will come a time, my love, When, if I read our stars aright, I shall not linger by this porch With my farewells. Till then, good-night! You wish the time were now? And I. You do not blush to wish it so? You would have blushed yourself to death To own so much a year ago— What, both these snowy hands! ah, then I'll have to say Good-night again!

Thomas Bailey Aldrich [1837-1907]



SERENADE

The western wind is blowing fair Across the dark Aegean sea, And at the secret marble stair My Tyrian galley waits for thee. Come down! the purple sail is spread, The watchman sleeps within the town; O leave thy lily-flowered bed, O Lady mine, come down, come down!

She will not come, I know her well, Of lover's vows she hath no care, And little good a man can tell Of one so cruel and so fair. True love is but a woman's toy, They never know the lover's pain, And I, who love as loves a boy, Must love in vain, must love in vain.

O noble pilot, tell me true, Is that the sheen of golden hair? Or is it but the tangled dew That binds the passion-flowers there? Good sailor, come and tell me now, Is that my Lady's lily hand? Or is it but the gleaming prow, Or is it but the silver sand?

No! no! 'tis not the tangled dew, 'Tis not the silver-fretted sand, It is my own dear Lady true With golden hair and lily hand! O noble pilot, steer for Troy! Good sailor, ply the laboring oar! This is the Queen of life and joy Whom we must bear from Grecian shore!

The waning sky grows faint and blue; It wants an hour still of day; Aboard! aboard! my gallant crew, O Lady mine, away! away! O noble pilot, steer for Troy! Good sailor, ply the laboring oar! O loved as only loves a boy! O loved for ever, evermore!

Oscar Wilde [1856-1900]



THE LITTLE RED LARK

O swan of slenderness, Dove of tenderness, Jewel of joys, arise! The little red lark, Like a soaring spark Of song, to his sunburst flies; But till thou art arisen, Earth is a prison, Full of my lonesome sighs: Then awake and discover, To thy fond lover, The morn of thy matchless eyes. The dawn is dark to me, Hark! oh, hark to me,

Pulse of my heart, I pray! And out of thy hiding With blushes gliding, Dazzle me with thy day. Ah, then once more to thee Flying I'll pour to thee Passion so sweet and gay, The larks shall listen, And dew-drops glisten, Laughing on every spray.



Alfred Perceval Graves [1846-1931]



SERENADE

By day my timid passions stand Like begging children at your gate, Each with a mute, appealing hand To ask a dole of Fate; But when night comes, released from doubt, Like merry minstrels they appear, The stars ring out their hopeful shout, Beloved, can you hear?

They dare not sing to you by day Their all-desirous song, or take The world with their adventurous lay For your enchanted sake. But when the night-wind wakes and thrills The shadows that the night unbars, Their music fills the dreamy hills, And folds the friendly stars.

Beloved, can you hear? They sing Words that no mortal lips can sound; Love through the world has taken wing, My passions are unbound. And now, and now, my lips, my eyes, Are stricken dumb with hope and fear, It is my burning soul that cries, Beloved, can you hear?

Richard Middleton [1882-1911]



THE COMEDY OF LOVE



A LOVER'S LULLABY

Sing lullaby, as women do, Wherewith they bring their babes to rest; And lullaby can I sing too, As womanly as can the best. With lullaby they still the child; And if I be not much beguiled, Full many a wanton babe have I, Which must be stilled with lullaby.

First lullaby my youthful years, It is now time to go to bed: For crooked age and hoary hairs Have won the haven within my head. With lullaby, then, youth be still; With lullaby content thy will; Since courage quails and comes behind, Go sleep, and so beguile thy mind!

Next lullaby my gazing eyes, Which wonted were to glance apace; For every glass may now suffice To show the furrows in thy face. With lullaby then wink awhile; With lullaby your looks beguile; Let no fair face, nor beauty bright, Entice you eft with vain delight.

And lullaby my wanton will; Let reason's rule now reign thy thought; Since all too late I find by skill How dear I have thy fancies bought; With lullaby now take thine ease, With lullaby thy doubts appease; For trust to this, if thou be still, My body shall obey thy will.

Thus lullaby my youth, mine eyes, My will, my ware, and all that was: I can no more delays devise; But welcome pain, let pleasure pass. With lullaby now take your leave; With lullaby your dreams deceive; And when you rise with waking eye, Remember then this lullaby.

George Gascoigne [1525?-1577]



PHILLIDA AND CORIDON

In the merry month of May, In a morn by break of day, Forth I walked by the wood-side When as May was in his pride: There I spied all alone Phillida and Coridon. Much ado there was, God wot! He would love and she would not. She said, Never man was true; He said, None was false to you. He said, He had loved her long; She said, Love should have no wrong. Coridon would kiss her then; She said, Maids must kiss no men Till they did for good and all; Then she made the shepherd call All the heavens to witness truth Never loved a truer youth. Thus with many a pretty oath, Yea and nay, and faith and troth, Such as silly shepherds use When they will not Love abuse, Love, which had been long deluded, Was with kisses sweet concluded; And Phillida, with garlands gay, Was made the Lady of the May.

Nicholas Breton [1545?-1626?]



"CRABBED AGE AND YOUTH" From "The Passionate Pilgrim"

Crabbed Age and Youth Cannot live together: Youth is full of pleasance, Age is full of care; Youth like summer morn, Age like winter weather; Youth like summer brave, Age like winter bare. Youth is full of sport, Age's breath is short; Youth is nimble, Age is lame; Youth is hot and bold, Age is weak and cold; Youth is wild, and Age is tame. Age, I do abhor thee; Youth, I do adore thee; O, my Love, my Love is young! Age, I do defy thee: O, sweet shepherd, hie thee! For methinks thou stay'st too long.

William Shakespeare [1564-1616]



"IT WAS A LOVER AND HIS LASS" From "As You Like It"

It was a lover and his lass, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, That o'er the green corn-field did pass, In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; Sweet lovers love the spring.

Between the acres of the rye, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, These pretty country folks would lie, In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; Sweet lovers love the spring.

This carol they began that hour, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, How that life was but a flower In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; Sweet lovers love the spring.

And, therefore, take the present time With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, For love is crowned with the prime In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; Sweet lovers love the spring.

William Shakespeare [1564-1616]



"I LOVED A LASS"



I loved a lass, a fair one, As fair as e'er was seen; She was indeed a rare one, Another Sheba Queen: But, fool as then I was, I thought she loved me too: But now, alas! she's left me, Falero, lero, loo!

Her hair like gold did glister, Each eye was like a star, She did surpass her sister, Which passed all others far; She would me honey call, She'd—O she'd kiss me too! But now, alas! she's left me, Falero, lero, loo!

Many a merry meeting My love and I have had; She was my only sweeting, She made my heart full glad; The tears stood in her eyes Like to the morning dew: But now, alas! she's left me, Falero, lero, loo!

Her cheeks were like the cherry, Her skin was white as snow; When she was blithe and merry She angel-like did show; Her waist exceeding small, The fives did fit her shoe: But now, alas! she's left me, Falero, lero, loo!

In summer time or winter She had her heart's desire; I still did scorn to stint her From sugar, sack, or fire; The world went round about, No cares we ever knew: But now, alas! she's left me, Falero, lero, loo!

To maidens' vows and swearing Henceforth no credit give; You may give them the hearing, But never them believe; They are as false as fair, Unconstant, frail, untrue: For mine, alas! hath left me, Falero, lero, loo!

George Wither [1588-1667]



TO CHLORIS

Ah, Chloris! that I now could sit As unconcerned as when Your infant beauty could beget No pleasure, nor no pain! When I the dawn used to admire, And praised the coming day, I little thought the growing fire Must take my rest away.

Your charms in harmless childhood lay Like metals in the mine; Age from no face took more away Than youth concealed in thine. But as your charms insensibly To their perfection pressed, Fond love as unperceived did fly, And in my bosom rest.

My passion with your beauty grew, And Cupid at my heart, Still as his mother favored you, Threw a new flaming dart: Each gloried in their wanton part; To make a lover, he Employed the utmost of his art— To make a beauty, she.

Charles Sedley [1639?-1701]



SONG

The merchant, to secure his treasure, Conveys it in a borrowed name: Euphelia serves to grace my measure; But Chloe is my real flame.

My softest verse, my darling lyre, Upon Euphelia's toilet lay; When Chloe noted her desire That I should sing, that I should play.

My lyre I tune, my voice I raise; But with my numbers mix my sighs: And while I sing Euphelia's praise, I fix my soul on Chloe's eyes.

Fair Chloe blushed: Euphelia frowned: I sung, and gazed: I played, and trembled: And Venus to the Loves around Remarked, how ill we all dissembled.

Matthew Prior [1664-1721]



PIOUS SELINDA

Pious Selinda goes to prayers, If I but ask her favor; And yet the silly fool's in tears If she believes I'll leave her; Would I were free from this restraint, Or else had hopes to win her: Would she could make of me a saint, Or I of her a sinner.

William Congreve [1670-1729]



FAIR HEBE

Fair Hebe I left, with a cautious design To escape from her charms, and to drown them in wine, I tried it; but found, when I came to depart, The wine in my head, and still love in my heart.

I repaired to my Reason, entreated her aid; Who paused on my case and each circumstance weighed, Then gravely pronounced, in return to my prayer, That "Hebe was fairest of all that was fair!"

"That's a truth," replied I, "I've no need to be taught; I came for your counsel to find out a fault." "If that's all," quoth Reason, "return as you came; To find fault with Hebe, would forfeit my name."

What hopes then, alas! of relief from my pain, While, like lightning, she darts through each throbbing vein? My Senses surprised, in her favor took arms; And Reason confirms me a slave to her charms.

John West [1693-1766]



A MAIDEN'S IDEAL OF A HUSBAND From "The Contrivances"

Genteel in personage, Conduct, and equipage, Noble by heritage, Generous and free: Brave, not romantic; Learned, not pedantic; Frolic, not frantic; This must he be.

Honor maintaining, Meanness disdaining, Still entertaining, Engaging and new. Neat, but not finical; Sage, but not cynical; Never tyrannical, But ever true.

Henry Carey [?—1743]



"PHILLADA FLOUTS ME"

O what a plague is love! How shall I bear it? She will inconstant prove, I greatly fear it. She so torments my mind That my strength faileth, And wavers with the wind As a ship saileth. Please her the best I may, She loves still to gainsay; Alack and well-a-day! Phillada flouts me.

At the fair yesterday She did pass by me; She looked another way And would not spy me: I wooed her for to dine, But could not get her; Will had her to the wine— He might entreat her. With Daniel she did dance, On me she looked askance: O thrice unhappy chance! Phillada flouts me.

Fair maid, be not so coy, Do not disdain me! I am my mother's joy: Sweet, entertain me! She'll give me, when she dies, All that is fitting: Her poultry and her bees, And her goose sitting, A pair of mattress beds, And a bag full of shreds; And yet, for all this guedes, Phillada flouts me!

She hath a clout of mine Wrought with blue coventry, Which she keeps for a sign Of my fidelity: But i' faith, if she flinch She shall not wear it; To Tib, my t'other wench, I mean to bear it. And yet it grieves my heart So soon from her to part: Death strike me with his dart! Phillada flouts me.

Thou shalt eat crudded cream All the year lasting, And drink the crystal stream Pleasant in tasting; Whig and whey whilst thou lust, And bramble-berries, Pie-lid and pastry-crust, Pears, plums, and cherries. Thy raiment shall be thin, Made of a weevil's skin— Yet all's not worth a pin! Phillada flouts me.

In the last month of May I made her posies; I heard her often say That she loved roses. Cowslips and gillyflowers And the white lily I brought to deck the bowers For my sweet Philly. But she did all disdain, And threw them back again; Therefore 'tis flat and plain Phillada flouts me.

Fair maiden, have a care, And in time take me; I can have those as fair If you forsake me: For Doll the dairy-maid Laughed at me lately, And wanton Winifred Favors me greatly. One throws milk on my clothes, T'other plays with my nose; What wanting signs are those? Phillada flouts me.

I cannot work nor sleep At all in season: Love wounds my heart so deep Without all reason I 'gin to pine away In my love's shadow, Like as a fat beast may, Penned in a meadow, I shall be dead, I fear, Within this thousand year: And all for that my dear Phillada flouts me.

Unknown



"WHEN MOLLY SMILES"

When Molly smiles beneath her cow, I feel my heart—I can't tell how; When Molly is on Sunday dressed, On Sundays I can take no rest.

What can I do? On worky days I leave my work on her to gaze. What shall I say? At sermons, I Forget the text when Molly's by.

Good master curate, teach me how To mind your preaching and my plow: And if for this you'll raise a spell, A good fat goose shall thank you well.

Unknown



CONTENTIONS

It was a lordling's daughter, the fairest one of three, That liked of her master as well as well might be; Till looking on an Englishman, the fair'st that eye could see Her fancy fell a-turning.

Long was the combat doubtful that love with love did fight, To leave the master loveless, or kill the gallant knight: To put in practice either, alas! it was a spite Unto the silly damsel.

But one must be refused: more mickle was the pain, That nothing could be used to turn them both to gain; For of the two the trusty knight was wounded with disdain: Alas! she could not help it.

Thus art with arms contending was victor of the day, Which by a gift of learning did bear the maid away; Then lullaby, the learned man hath got the lady gays For now my song is ended.

Unknown



"I ASKED MY FAIR, ONE HAPPY DAY" After Lessing

I asked my fair, one happy day, What I should call her in my lay; By what sweet name from Rome or Greece; Lalage, Neaera, Chloris, Sappho, Lesbia, or Doris, Arethusa or Lucrece.

"Ah!" replied my gentle fair, "Beloved, what are names but air? Choose thou whatever suits the line; Call me Sappho, call me Chloris, Call me Lalage or Doris, Only—only call me thine."

Samuel Taylor Coleridge [1772-1834]



THE EXCHANGE

We pledged our hearts, my love and I,— I in my arms the maiden clasping: I could not tell the reason why, But oh! I trembled like an aspen.

Her father's love she bade me gain; I went, and shook like any reed! I strove to act the man—in vain! We had exchanged our hearts indeed.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge [1772-1834]



"COMIN' THROUGH THE RYE"

Comin' through the rye, poor body, Comin' through the rye, She draiglet a' her petticoatie, Comin' through the rye.

Oh Jenny's a' wat poor body, Jenny's seldom dry; She draiglet a' her petticoatie, Comin' through the rye.

Gin a body meet a body, Comin' through the rye, Gin a body kiss a body, Need a body cry?

Gin a body meet a body Comin' through the glen, Gin a body kiss a body, Need the warld ken?

Robert Burns [1759-1796]



"GREEN GROW THE RASHES, O!"

There's naught but care on every han', In every hour that passes, O! What signifies the life o' man, An' 'twere na for the lasses, O?

Green grow the rashes, O! Green grow the rashes, O! The sweetest hours that e'er I spend, Are spent amang the lasses, O!

The warl'ly race may riches chase, An' riches still may fly them, O! An' though at last they catch them fast, Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O!

Gie me a canny hour at e'en; My arms about my dearie, O! An' warl'ly cares, an' warl'ly men, May a' gae tapsalteerie, O!

For you sae douce, ye sneer at this; Ye'er naught but senseless asses, O! The wisest man the warl' e'er saw He dearly loved the lasses, O!

Auld Nature swears the lovely dears Her noblest work she classes, O! Her 'prentice han' she tried on man, An' then she made the lasses, O!

Robert Burns [1759-1796]



DEFIANCE

Catch her and hold her if you can— See, she defies you with her fan, Shuts, opens, and then holds it spread In threatening guise above your head. Ah! why did you not start before She reached the porch and closed the door? Simpleton! will you never learn That girls and time will not return; Of each you should have made the most; Once gone, they are forever lost. In vain your knuckles knock your brow, In vain will you remember how Like a slim brook the gamesome maid Sparkled, and ran into the shade.

Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]



OF CLEMENTINA

In Clementina's artless mien Lucilla asks me what I see, And are the roses of sixteen Enough for me?

Lucilla asks, if that be all, Have I not culled as sweet before: Ah yes, Lucilla! and their fall I still deplore.

I now behold another scene, Where Pleasure beams with Heaven's own light, More pure, more constant, more serene, And not less bright.

Faith, on whose breast the Loves repose, Whose chain of flowers no force can sever, And Modesty who, when she goes, Is gone for ever.

Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]



"THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING"

The time I've lost in wooing, In watching and pursuing The light that lies In woman's eyes, Has been my heart's undoing. Though Wisdom oft has sought me, I scorned the lore she brought me,— My only books Were women's looks, And folly's all they taught me.

Her smile when Beauty granted, I hung with gaze enchanted, Like him the sprite Whom maids by night Oft meet in glen that's haunted. Like him, too, Beauty won me; But when the spell was on me, If once their ray Was turned away, O! winds could not outrun me.

And are those follies going? And is my proud heart growing Too cold or wise For brilliant eyes Again to set it glowing? No—vain, alas! th' endeavor From bonds so sweet to sever;— Poor Wisdom's chance Against a glance Is now as weak as ever.

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]



DEAR FANNY

"She has beauty, but you must keep your heart cool; She has wit, but you mustn't be caught so": Thus Reason advises, but Reason's a fool, And 'tis not the first time I have thought so, Dear Fanny, 'Tis not the first time I have thought so.

"She is lovely; then love her, nor let the bliss fly; 'Tis the charm of youth's vanishing season"; Thus Love has advised me, and who will deny That Love reasons better than Reason, Dear Fanny Love reasons much better than Reason.

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]



A CERTAIN YOUNG LADY

There's a certain young lady, Who's just in her hey-day, And full of all mischief, I ween; So teasing! so pleasing! Capricious! delicious! And you know very well whom I mean.

With an eye dark as night, Yet than noonday more bright, Was ever a black eye so keen? It can thrill with a glance, With a beam can entrance, And you know very well whom I mean.

With a stately step—such as You'd expect in a duchess— And a brow might distinguish a queen, With a mighty proud air, That says "touch me who dare," And you know very well whom I mean.

With a toss of the head That strikes one quite dead, But a smile to revive one again; That toss so appalling! That smile so enthralling! And you know very well whom I mean.

Confound her! de'il take her!— A cruel heart-breaker— But hold! see that smile so serene. God love her! God bless her! May nothing distress her! You know very well whom I mean.

Heaven help the adorer Who happens to bore her, The lover who wakens her spleen; But too blest for a sinner Is he who shall win her, And you know very well whom I mean.

Washington Irving [1783-1859]



"WHERE BE YOU GOING, YOU DEVON MAID"

Where be you going, you Devon maid? And what have ye there in the basket? Ye tight little fairy, just fresh from the dairy, Will ye give me some cream if I ask it?

I love your hills and I love your dales, And I love your flocks a-bleating; But oh, on the heather to lie together, With both our hearts a-beating!

I'll put your basket all safe in a nook; Your shawl I'll hang on a willow; And we will sigh in the daisy's eye, And kiss on a grass-green pillow.

John Keats [1795-1821]



LOVE IN A COTTAGE

They may talk of love in a cottage, And bowers of trellised vine,— Of nature bewitchingly simple, And milkmaids half divine; They may talk of the pleasure of sleeping In the shade of a spreading tree, And a walk in the fields at morning, By the side of a footstep free!

But give me a sly flirtation By the light of a chandelier,— With music to play in the pauses, And nobody very near; Or a seat on a silken sofa, With a glass of pure old wine, And mamma too blind to discover The small white hand in mine.