And—oons! Their wrath cooled as they looked,— That Poet stared as fierce as any! He was a mighty proper man, With blade on hip and inches many; The beaux all vowed it was their duty To toast some newer, softer Beauty.

Sweet Pam she bridled, blushed and smiled— The wild thing loved and could but show it! Mayhap some day you'll see in town Pamela and her grizzled Poet. Forsooth he taught the rogue her duty, And won her faith, her love, her beauty.

Ellen Mackay Hutchinson Cortissoz [?-1933]



YES?

Is it true, then, my girl, that you mean it— The word spoken yesterday night? Does that hour seem so sweet now between it And this has come day's sober light? Have you woke from a moment of rapture To remember, regret, and repent, And to hate, perchance, him who has trapped your Unthinking consent?

Who was he, last evening—this fellow Whose audacity lent him a charm? Have you promised to wed Pulchinello? For life taking Figaro's arm? Will you have the Court fool of the papers, The clown in the journalists' ring, Who earns his scant bread by his capers, To be your heart's king?

When we met quite by chance at the theatre And I saw you home under the moon, I'd no thought, love, that mischief would be at her Tricks with my tongue quite so soon; That I should forget fate and fortune Make a difference 'twixt Sevres and delf— That I'd have the calm nerve to importune You, sweet, for yourself.

It's appalling, by Jove, the audacious Effrontery of that request! But you—you grew suddenly gracious, And hid your sweet face on my breast. Why you did it I cannot conjecture; I surprised you, poor child, I dare say, Or perhaps—does the moonlight affect your Head often that way?

...........

You're released! With some wooer replace me More worthy to be your life's light; From the tablet of memory efface me, If you don't mean your Yes of last night. But—unless you are anxious to see me a Wreck of the pipe and the cup In my birthplace and graveyard, Bohemia— Love, don't give me up!

Henry Cuyler Bunner [1855-1896]



THE PRIME OF LIFE

Just as I thought I was growing old, Ready to sit in my easy chair, To watch the world with a heart grown cold, And smile at a folly I would not share,

Rose came by with a smile for me, And I am thinking that forty year Isn't the age that it seems to be, When two pretty brown eyes are near.

Bless me! of life it is just the prime, A fact that I hope she will understand; And forty year is a perfect rhyme To dark brown eyes and a pretty hand.

These gray hairs are by chance, you see— Boys are sometimes gray, I am told: Rose came by with a smile for me, Just as I thought I was getting old.

Walter Learned [1847-1915]



THOUGHTS ON THE COMMANDMENTS

"Love your neighbor as yourself,"— So the parson preaches: That's one half the Decalogue,— So the prayer-book teaches. Half my duty I can do With but little labor, For with all my heart and soul I do love my neighbor.

Mighty little credit, that, To my self-denial, Not to love her, though, might be Something of a trial. Why, the rosy light, that peeps Through the glass above her, Lingers round her lips,—you see E'en the sunbeams love her.

So to make my merit more, I'll go beyond the letter:— Love my neighbor as myself? Yes, and ten times better. For she's sweeter than the breath Of the Spring, that passes Through the fragrant, budding woods, O'er the meadow-grasses.

And I've preached the word I know, For it was my duty To convert the stubborn heart Of the little beauty. Once again success has crowned Missionary labor, For her sweet eyes own that she Also loves her neighbor.

George Augustus Baker [1849-1906]



THE IRONY OF LOVE



"SIGH NO MORE, LADIES" From "Much Ado About Nothing"

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever; One foot in sea, and one on shore; To one thing constant never. Then sigh not so, But let them go, And be you blithe and bonny, Converting all your sounds of woe Into Hey nonny, nonny.

Sing no more ditties, sing no moe Of dumps so dull and heavy; The fraud of men was ever so, Since summer first was leavy. Then sigh not so, But let them go, And be you blithe and bonny, Converting all your sounds of woe Into Hey nonny, nonny.

William Shakespeare [1564-1616]



A RENUNCIATION

If women could be fair, and yet not fond, Or that their love were firm, not fickle still, I would not marvel that they make men bond By service long to purchase their good will; But when I see how frail those creatures are, I muse that men forget themselves so far.

To mark the choice they make, and how they change, How oft from Phoebus they do flee to Pan; Unsettled still, like haggards wild they range, These gentle birds that fly from man to man; Who would not scorn and shake them from the fist, And let them fly, fair fools, which way they list?

Yet for disport we fawn and flatter both, To pass the time when nothing else can please, And train them to our lure with subtle oath, Till, weary of their wiles, ourselves we ease; And then we say when we their fancy try, To play with fools, O what a fool was I!

Edward Vere [1550-1604]



A SONG

Ye happy swains, whose hearts are free From Love's imperial chain, Take warning, and be taught by me, To avoid the enchanting pain; Fatal the wolves to trembling flocks, Fierce winds to blossoms prove, To careless seamen, hidden rocks, To human quiet, love.

Fly the fair sex, if bliss you prize; The snake's beneath the flower: Who ever gazed on beauteous eyes, That tasted quiet more? How faithless is the lovers' joy! How constant is their care The kind with falsehood to destroy, The cruel, with despair.

George Etherege [1635?-1691]



TO HIS FORSAKEN MISTRESS

I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair, And I might have gone near to love thee, Had I not found the slightest prayer That lips could speak, had power to move thee: But I can let thee now alone As worthy to be loved by none.

I do confess thou'rt sweet; yet find Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets, Thy favors are but like the wind That kisseth everything it meets: And since thou canst with more than one, Thou'rt worthy to be kissed by none.

The morning rose that untouched stands Armed with her briers, how sweet her smell! But plucked and strained through ruder hands, Her sweets no longer with her dwell: But scent and beauty both are gone, And leaves fall from her, one by one.

Such fate ere long will thee betide When thou hast handled been awhile, With sere flowers to be thrown aside; And I shall sigh, while some will smile, To see thy love to every one Hath brought thee to be loved by none.

Robert Ayton [1570-1638]



TO AN INCONSTANT

I loved thee once; I'll love no more,— Thine be the grief as is the blame; Thou art not what thou wast before, What reason I should be the same? He that can love unloved again, Hath better store of love than brain: God send me love my debts to pay, While unthrifts fool their love away!

Nothing could have my love o'erthrown, If thou hadst still continued mine; Yea, if thou hadst remained thy own, I might perchance have yet been thine. But thou thy freedom didst recall, That it thou might elsewhere enthrall: And then how could I but disdain A captive's captive to remain?

When new desires had conquered thee, And changed the object of thy will, It had been lethargy in me, Not constancy, to love thee still. Yea, it had been a sin to go And prostitute affection so, Since we are taught no prayers to say To such as must to others pray.

Yet do thou glory in thy choice,— Thy choice of his good fortune boast; I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice, To see him gain what I have lost: The height of my disdain shall be, To laugh at him, to blush for thee; To love thee still, but go no more A-begging at a beggar's door.

Robert Ayton [1570-1638]



ADVICE TO A GIRL

Never love unless you can Bear with all the faults of man! Men sometimes will jealous be, Though but little cause they see, And hang the head, as discontent, And speak what straight they will repent.

Men, that but one Saint adore, Make a show of love to more; Beauty must be scorned in none, Though but truly served in one: For what is courtship but disguise? True hearts may have dissembling eyes.

Men, when their affairs require, Must awhile themselves retire; Sometimes hunt, and sometimes hawk, And not ever sit and talk:— If these and such-like you can bear, Then like, and love, and never fear!

Thomas Campion [?—1619]



SONG That Women Are But Men's Shadows From "The Forest"

Follow a shadow, it still flies you; Seem to fly it, it will pursue: So court a mistress, she denies you; Let her alone, she will court you. Say, are not women truly, then, Styled but the shadows of us men?

At morn and even, shades are longest; At noon they are or short or none: So men at weakest, they are strongest, But grant us perfect, they're not known. Say, are not women truly then, Styled but the shadows of us men?

Ben Johnson [1573?-1637]



TRUE BEAUTY

May I find a woman fair And her mind as clear as air! If her beauty go alone, 'Tis to me as if 'twere none.

May I find a woman rich, And not of too high a pitch! If that pride should cause disdain, Tell me, Lover, where's thy gain?

May I find a woman wise, And her falsehood not disguise! Hath she wit as she hath will, Double-armed she is to ill.

May I find a woman kind, And not wavering like the wind! How should I call that love mine When 'tis his, and his, and thine?

May I find a woman true! There is beauty's fairest hue: There is beauty, love, and wit. Happy he can compass it!

Francis Beaumont [1584-1616]



THE INDIFFERENT

Never more will I protest To love a woman but in jest: For as they cannot be true, So to give each man his due, When the wooing fit is past, Their affection cannot last.

Therefore if I chance to meet With a mistress fair and sweet, She my service shall obtain, Loving her for love again: Thus much liberty I crave Not to be a constant slave.

But when we have tried each other, If she better like another, Let her quickly change for me; Then to change am I as free. He or she that loves too long Sell their freedom for a song.

Francis Beaumont [1584-1616]



THE LOVER'S RESOLUTION

Shall I, wasting in despair, Die because a woman's fair? Or make pale my cheeks with care 'Cause another's rosy are? Be she fairer than the day, Or the flowery meads in May, If she think not well of me, What care I how fair she be?

Shall my silly heart be pined 'Cause I see a woman kind? Or a well disposed nature Joined with a lovely feature? Be she meeker, kinder, than Turtle-dove or pelican, If she be not so to me, What care I how kind she be?

Shall a woman's virtues move Me to perish for her love? Or her well-deservings known Make me quite forget my own? Be she with that goodness blest Which may merit name of Best, If she be not such to me, What care I how good she be?

'Cause her fortune seems too high, Shall I play the fool and die? She that bears a noble mind, If not outward helps she find, Thinks what with them he would do That without them dares her woo; And unless that mind I see, What care I how great she be?

Great, or good, or kind, or fair, I will ne'er the more despair; If she love me, this believe, I will die ere she shall grieve; If she slight me when I woo, I can scorn and let her go; For if she be not for me, What care I for whom she be?

George Wither [1588-1667]



HIS FURTHER RESOLUTION

Shall I (like a hermit) dwell On a rock or in a cell; Calling home the smallest part That is missing of my heart, To bestow it where I may Meet a rival every day? If she undervalue me, What care I how fair she be!

Were her tresses angel-gold; If a stranger may be bold, Unrebuked, and unafraid, To convert them to a braid; And, with little more ado, Work them into bracelets, too! If the mine be grown so free, What care I how rich it be!

Were her hands as rich a prize As her hair or precious eyes; If she lay them out to take Kisses for good manners' sake! And let every lover slip From her hand unto her lip! If she seem not chaste to me, What care I how chaste she be!

No! She must be perfect snow In effect as well as show! Warming but as snowballs do; Not like fire by burning, too! But when she by change hath got To her heart a second lot; Then if others share with me, Farewell her! whate'er she be!

Unknown



SONG From "Britannia's Pastorals"

Shall I tell you whom I love? Hearken then awhile to me; And if such a woman move As I now shall versify, Be assured 'tis she or none, That I love, and love alone.

Nature did her so much right As she scorns the help of art; In as many virtues dight As e'er yet embraced a heart: So much good so truly tried, Some for less were deified.

Wit she hath, without desire To make known how much she hath; And her anger flames no higher Than may fitly sweeten wrath. Full of pity as may be, Though perhaps not so to me.

Reason masters every sense, And her virtues grace her birth; Lovely as all excellence, Modest in her most of mirth, Likelihood enough to prove Only worth could kindle love.

Such she is: and if you know Such a one as I have sung; Be she brown, or fair, or so That she be but somewhat young; Be assured 'tis she, or none, That I love, and love alone.

William Browne [1591-1643?]



TO DIANEME

Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes, Which, star-like, sparkle in their skies; Nor be you proud that you can see All hearts your captives, yours yet free; Be you not proud of that rich hair, Which wantons with the love-sick air; Whenas that ruby which you wear, Sunk from the tip of your soft ear, Will last to be a precious stone When all your world of beauty's gone.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]



INGRATEFUL BEAUTY THREATENED

Know, Celia, since thou art so proud, 'Twas I that gave thee thy renown. Thou hadst in the forgotten crowd Of common beauties lived unknown, Had not my verse extolled thy name, And with it imped the wings of Fame.

That killing power is none of thine; I gave it to thy voice and eyes; Thy sweets, thy graces, all are mine; Thou art my star, shin'st in my skies; Then dart not from thy borrowed sphere Lightning on him that fixed thee there.

Tempt me with such affrights no more, Lest what I made I uncreate; Let fools thy mystic form adore, I know thee in thy mortal state. Wise poets, that wrapped Truth in tales, Knew her themselves through all her veils.

Thomas Carew [1598?-1639?]



DISDAIN RETURNED

He that loves a rosy cheek, Or a coral lip admires, Or from star-like eyes doth seek Fuel to maintain his fires: As old Time makes these decay, So his flames must waste away.

But a smooth and steadfast mind, Gentle thoughts, and calm desires, Hearts with equal love combined, Kindle never-dying fires:— Where these are not, I despise Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.

No tears, Celia, now shall win My resolved heart to return; I have searched thy soul within, And find naught but pride and scorn; I have learned thy arts, and now Can disdain as much as thou.

Some power, in my revenge, convey That love to her I cast away.

Thomas Carew [1598?-1639?]



"LOVE WHO WILL, FOR I'LL LOVE NONE"

Love who will, for I'll love none, There's fools enough beside me: Yet if each woman have not one, Come to me where I hide me, And if she can the place attain, For once I'll be her fool again.

It is an easy place to find, And women sure should know it; Yet thither serves not every wind, Nor many men can show it: It is the storehouse, where doth lie All woman's truth and constancy.

If the journey be so long, No woman will adventer; But dreading her weak vessel's wrong, The voyage will not enter: Then may she sigh and lie alone, In love with all, yet loved of none.

William Browne [1591-1643]



VALERIUS ON WOMEN

She that denies me I would have; Who craves me I despise: Venus hath power to rule mine heart, But not to please mine eyes.

Temptations offered I still scorn; Denied, I cling them still; I'll neither glut mine appetite, Nor seek to starve my will.

Diana, double-clothed, offends; So Venus, naked quite: The last begets a surfeit, and The other no delight.

That crafty girl shall please me best, That no, for yea, can say; And every wanton willing kiss Can season with a nay.

Thomas Heywood [?-1650?]



DISPRAISE OF LOVE, AND LOVERS' FOLLIES

If love be life, I long to die, Live they that list for me; And he that gains the most thereby, A fool at least shall be. But he that feels the sorest fits, 'Scapes with no less than loss of wits. Unhappy life they gain, Which love do entertain.

In day by feigned looks they live, By lying dreams in night; Each frown a deadly wound doth give, Each smile a false delight. If't hap their lady pleasant seem, It is for others' love they deem: If void she seem of joy, Disdain doth make her coy.

Such is the peace that lovers find, Such is the life they lead, Blown here and there with every wind, Like flowers in the mead; Now war, now peace, now war again, Desire, despair, delight, disdain: Though dead in midst of life, In peace, and yet at strife.

Francis Davison [fl. 1602]



THE CONSTANT LOVER

Out upon it, I have loved Three whole days together! And am like to love three more, If it prove fair weather.

Time shall moult away his wings, Ere he shall discover In the whole wide world again Such a constant lover.

But the spite on't is, no praise Is due at all to me: Love with me had made no stays, Had it any been but she.

Had it any been but she, And that very face, There had been at least ere this A dozen in her place.

John Suckling [1609-1642]



SONG From "Aglaura"

Why so pale and wan, fond lover? Prithee, why so pale? Will, when looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail? Prithee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Prithee, why so mute? Will, when speaking well can't win her, Saying nothing do't? Prithee, why so mute?

Quit, quit, for shame, this will not move: This cannot take her. If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her: The devil take her!

John Suckling [1609-1642]



WISHES TO HIS SUPPOSED MISTRESS

Whoe'er she be, That not impossible She That shall command my heart and me:

Where'er she lie, Locked up from mortal eye In shady leaves of destiny:

Till that ripe birth Of studied Fate stand forth, And teach her fair steps tread our earth:

Till that divine Idea take a shrine Of crystal flesh, through which to shine;

Meet you her, my Wishes, Bespeak her to my blisses, And be ye called my absent kisses.

I wish her Beauty That owes not all its duty To gaudy tire, or glistering shoe-tie:

Something more than Taffeta or tissue can, Or rampant feather, or rich fan.

More than the spoil Of shop, or silkworm's toil, Or a bought blush, or a set smile.

A Face that's best By its own beauty dressed, And can alone commend the rest

A Face, made up Out of no other shop Than what Nature's white hand sets ope.

A Cheek, where youth And blood, with pen of truth, Write what the reader sweetly ru'th.

A Cheek, where grows More than a morning rose, Which to no box its being owes.

Lips, where all day A lover's kiss may play, Yet carry nothing thence away.

Looks, that oppress Their richest tires, but dress And clothe their simplest nakedness.

Eyes, that displace The neighbor diamond, and outface That sunshine by their own sweet grace.

Tresses, that wear Jewels but to declare How much themselves more precious are:

Whose native ray Can tame the wanton day Of gems that in their bright shades play.

Each ruby there, Or pearl that dare appear, Be its own blush, be its own tear.

A well-tamed Heart, For whose more noble smart Love may be long choosing a dart.

Eyes, that bestow Full quivers on Love's bow, Yet pay less arrows than they owe.

Smiles, that can warm The blood, yet teach a charm, That chastity shall take no harm.

Blushes, that bin The burnish of no sin, Nor flames of aught too hot within.

Joys, that confess Virtue their mistress, And have no other head to dress.

Fears, fond and slight As the coy bride's, when night, First does the longing lover right.

Days that need borrow No part of their good-morrow From a fore-spent night of sorrow.

Days that, in spite Of darkness, by the light Of a clear mind, are day all night.

Nights, sweet as they, Made short by lovers' play, Yet long by the absence of the day.

Life, that dares send A challenge to his end, And when it comes, say, "Welcome, friend!"

Sydneian showers Of sweet discourse, whose powers Can crown old Winter's head with flowers.

Soft silken hours, Open suns, shady bowers; 'Bove all, nothing within that lowers.

Whate'er delight Can make Day's forehead bright, Or give down to the wings of Night.

In her whole frame Have Nature all the name; Art and Ornament, the shame!

Her flattery, Picture and Poesy: Her counsel her own virtue be.

I wish her store Of worth may leave her poor Of wishes; and I wish—no more.

Now, if Time knows That Her, whose radiant brows Weave them a garland of my vows;

Her, whose just bays My future hopes can raise, A trophy to her present praise;

Her, that dares be What these lines wish to see; I seek no further, it is She.

'Tis She, and here, Lo! I unclothe and clear My Wishes' cloudy character.

May She enjoy it Whose merit dare apply it, But modesty dares still deny it!

Such worth as this is Shall fix my flying Wishes, And determine them to kisses.

Let her full glory, My fancies, fly before ye; Be ye my fictions—but her Story!

Richard Crashaw [1613?-1649]



SONG From "Abdelazer"

Love in fantastic triumph sate Whilst bleeding hearts around him flowed, For whom fresh pains he did create And strange tyrannic power he showed: From thy bright eyes he took his fires, Which round about in sport he hurled; But 'twas from mine he took desires Enough t' undo the amorous world.

From me he took his sighs and tears, From thee his pride and cruelty; From me his languishments and fears, And every killing dart from thee. Thus thou and I the god have armed And set him up a deity; But my poor heart alone is harmed, Whilst thine the victor is, and free!

Aphra Behn [1640-1689]



LES AMOURS

She that I pursue, still flies me; Her that follows me, I fly; She that I still court, denies me; Her that courts me, I deny; Thus in one web we're subtly wove, And yet we mutiny in love.

She that can save me, must not do it; She that cannot, fain would do; Her love is bound, yet I still woo it; Hers by love is bound in woe: Yet how can I of love complain, Since I have love for love again?

This is thy work, imperious Child, Thine's this labyrinth of love, That thus hast our desires beguiled, Nor seest how thine arrows rove. Then, prithee, to compose this stir, Make her love me, or me love her.

But, if irrevocable are Those keen shafts that wound us so, Let me prevail with thee thus far, That thou once more take thy bow; Wound her hard heart, and by my troth, I'll be content to take them both.

Charles Cotton [1630-1687]



RIVALS

Of all the torments, all the cares, With which our lives are cursed; Of all the plagues a lover bears, Sure rivals are the worst! By partners in each other kind Afflictions easier grow; In love alone we hate to find Companions of our woe.

Sylvia, for all the pangs you see Are laboring in my breast, I beg not you would favor me, Would you but slight the rest! How great soe'er your rigors are, With them alone I'll cope; I can endure my own despair, But not another's hope.

William Walsh [1663-1708]



"I LATELY VOWED, BUT 'TWAS IN HASTE"

I lately vowed, but 'twas in haste, That I no more would court The joys which seem when they are past As dull as they are short.

I oft to hate my mistress swear, But soon my weakness find: I make my oaths when she's severe, But break them when she's kind.

John Oldmixon [1673-1742]



THE TOUCH-STONE

A fool and knave with different views For Julia's hand apply; The knave to mend his fortune sues, The fool to please his eye.

Ask you how Julia will behave, Depend on't for a rule, If she's a fool she'll wed the knave— If she's a knave, the fool.

Samuel Bishop [1731-1795]



AIR From "The Duenna"

I ne'er could any luster see In eyes that would not look on me; I ne'er saw nectar on a lip, But where my own did hope to sip. Has the maid who seeks my heart Cheeks of rose, untouched by art? I will own the color true When yielding blushes aid their hue.

Is her hand so soft and pure? I must press it, to be sure; Nor can I be certain then, Till it, grateful, press again. Must I, with attentive eye, Watch her heaving bosom sigh? I will do so, when I see That heaving bosom sigh for me.

Richard Brinsley Sheridan [1751-1816]



"I TOOK A HANSOM ON TO-DAY"

I took a hansom on to-day, For a round I used to know— That I used to take for a woman's sake In a fever of to-and-fro.

There were the landmarks one and all— What did they stand to show? Street and square and river were there— Where was the ancient woe?

Never a hint of a challenging hope Nor a hope laid sick and low, But a longing dead as its kindred sped A thousand years ago!

William Ernest Henley [1849-1903]



DA CAPO

Short and sweet, and we've come to the end of it— Our poor little love lying cold. Shall no sonnet, then, ever be penned of it? Nor the joys and pains of it told? How fair was its face in the morning, How close its caresses at noon, How its evening grew chill without warning, Unpleasantly soon!

I can't say just how we began it— In a blush, or a smile, or a sigh; Fate took but an instant to plan it; It needs but a moment to die. Yet—remember that first conversation, When the flowers you had dropped at your feet I restored. The familiar quotation Was—"Sweets to the sweet."

Oh, their delicate perfume has haunted My senses a whole season through. If there was one soft charm that you wanted The violets lent it to you. I whispered you, life was but lonely: A cue which you graciously took; And your eyes learned a look for me only— A very nice look.

And sometimes your hand would touch my hand, With a sweetly particular touch; You said many things in a sigh, and Made a look express wondrously much. We smiled for the mere sake of smiling, And laughed for no reason but fun; Irrational joys; but beguiling— And all that is done!

We were idle, and played for a moment At a game that now neither will press: I cared not to find out what "No" meant; Nor your lips to grow yielding with "Yes." Love is done with and dead; if there lingers A faint and indefinite ghost, It is laid with this kiss on your fingers— A jest at the most.

'Tis a commonplace, stale situation, Now the curtain comes down from above On the end of our little flirtation— A travesty romance; for Love, If he climbed in disguise to your lattice, Fell dead of the first kisses' pain: But one thing is left us now; that is— Begin it again.

Henry Cuyler Bunner [1855-1896]



SONG AGAINST WOMEN

Why should I sing of women And the softness of night, When the dawn is loud with battle And the day's teeth bite, And there's a sword to lay my hand to And a man's fight?

Why should I sing of women?... There's life in the sun, And red adventure calling Where the roads run, And cheery brews at the tavern When the day's done.

I've sung of a hundred women In a hundred lands: But all their love is nothing But drifting sands. I'm sick of their tears and kisses And their pale hands.

I've sung of a hundred women And their bought lips; But out on the clean horizon I can hear the whips Of the white waves lashing the bulwarks Of great, strong ships:

And the trails that run to the westward Are shot with fire, And the winds hurl from the headland With ancient ire; And all my body itches With an old desire.

So I'll deal no more in women And the softness of night, But I'll follow the red adventure And the wind's flight; And I'll sing of the sea and of battle And of men's might.

Willard Huntington Wright [18



SONG OF THYRSIS

The turtle on yon withered bough, That lately mourned her murdered mate, Has found another comrade now— Such changes all await! Again her drooping plume is drest, Again she's willing to be blest And takes her lover to her nest.

If nature has decreed it so With all above, and all below, Let us like them forget our woe, And not be killed with sorrow. If I should quit your arms to-night And chance to die before 'twas light, I would advise you—and you might— Love again to-morrow.

Philip Freneau [1752-1832]



THE TEST

I held her hand, the pledge of bliss, Her hand that trembled and withdrew; She bent her head before my kiss... My heart was sure that hers was true. Now I have told her I must part, She shakes my hand, she bids adieu, Nor shuns the kiss. Alas, my heart! Hers never was the heart for you.

Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]



"THE FAULT IS NOT MINE"

The fault is not mine if I love you too much, I loved you too little too long, Such ever your graces, your tenderness such, And the music the heart gave the tongue.

A time is now coming when Love must be gone, Though he never abandoned me yet. Acknowledge our friendship, our passion disown, Our follies (ah can you?) forget.

Walter Savage Lander [1775-1864]



THE SNAKE

My love and I, the other day, Within a myrtle arbor lay, When near us, from a rosy bed, A little Snake put forth its head.

"See," said the maid, with laughing eyes— "Yonder the fatal emblem lies! Who could expect such hidden harm Beneath the rose's velvet charm?"

Never did moral thought occur In more unlucky hour than this; For oh! I just was leading her To talk of love and think of bliss.

I rose to kill the snake, but she In pity prayed it might not be. "No," said the girl—and many a spark Flashed from her eyelid as she said it— "Under the rose, or in the dark, One might, perhaps, have cause to dread it; But when its wicked eyes appear, And when we know for what they wink so, One must be very simple, dear, To let it sting one—don't you think so?"

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]



"WHEN I LOVED YOU"

When I loved you, I can't but allow I had many an exquisite minute; But the scorn that I feel for you now Hath even more luxury in it!

Thus, whether we're on or we're off, Some witchery seems to await you; To love you is pleasant enough, And oh! 'tis delicious to hate you!

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]



A TEMPLE TO FRIENDSHIP

"A temple to Friendship," said Laura, enchanted, "I'll build in this garden,—the thought is divine!" Her temple was built, and she now only wanted An image of Friendship to place on the shrine. She flew to a sculptor, who set down before her A Friendship, the fairest his art could invent; But so cold and so dull, that the youthful adorer Saw plainly this was not the idol she meant.

"O never," she cried, "could I think of enshrining An image whose looks are so joyless and dim:— But yon little god, upon roses reclining, We'll make, if you please, sir, a Friendship of him." So the bargain was struck. With the little god laden She joyfully flew to her shrine in the grove: "Farewell," said the sculptor, "you're not the first maiden Who came but for Friendship and took away Love!"

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]



THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS

King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport, And one day, as his lions fought, sat looking on the court. The nobles filled the benches, and the ladies in their pride, And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom he sighed: And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.

Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws; With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled on one another, Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous smother; The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the air; Said Francis then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there."

De Lorge's love o'erheard the King, a beauteous lively dame, With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seemed the same; She thought, "The Count, my lover, is brave as brave can be; He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me; King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine; I'll drop my glove to prove his love; great glory will be mine."

She dropped her glove, to prove his love, then looked at him and smiled; He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild; The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regained his place, Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face. "By Heaven," said Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose from where he sat; "No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that."

Leigh Hunt [1784-1859]



TO WOMAN

Woman! experience might have told me That all must love thee who behold thee; Surely experience might have taught Thy firmest promises are naught; But, placed in all thy charms before me, All I forget, but to adore thee. Oh, Memory! thou choicest blessing, When joined with hope, when still possessing; But how much cursed by every lover, When hope is fled, and passion's over! Woman, that fair and fond deceiver, How prompt are striplings to believe her! How throbs the pulse when first we view The eye that rolls in glossy blue, Or sparkles black, or mildly throws A beam from under hazel brows! How quick we credit every oath, And hear her plight the willing troth! Fondly we hope 'twill last for aye, When, lo! she changes in a day. This record will forever stand, "Woman, thy vows are traced in sand."

George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]



LOVE'S SPITE

You take a town you cannot keep; And, forced in turn to fly, O'er ruins you have made shall leap Your deadliest enemy! Her love is yours—and be it so— But can you keep it? No, no, no!

Upon her brow we gazed with awe, And loved, and wished to love, in vain But when the snow begins to thaw We shun with scorn the miry plain. Women with grace may yield: but she Appeared some Virgin Deity.

Bright was her soul as Dian's crest Whitening on Vesta's fane its sheen: Cold looked she as the waveless breast Of some stone Dian at thirteen. Men loved: but hope they deemed to be A sweet Impossibility!

Aubrey Thomas De Vere [1814-1902]



LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Of me you shall not win renown: You thought to break a country heart For pastime, ere you went to town. At me you smiled, but unbeguiled I saw the snare, and I retired: The daughter of a hundred earls, You are not one to be desired.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, I know you proud to bear your name, Your pride is yet no mate for mine, Too proud to care from whence I came. Nor would I break for your sweet sake A heart that dotes on truer charms. A simple maiden in her flower Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Some meeker pupil you must find, For, were you queen of all that is, I could not stoop to such a mind. You sought to prove how I could love, And my disdain is my reply. The lion on your old stone gates Is not more cold to you than I.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, You put strange memories in my head. Not thrice your branching limes have blown Since I beheld young Laurence dead. O, your sweet eyes, your low replies! A great enchantress you may be; But there was that across his throat Which you had hardly cared to see.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, When thus he met his mother's view, She had the passions of her kind, She spake some certain truths of you. Indeed I heard one bitter word That scarce is fit for you to hear; Her manners had not that repose Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere,

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, There stands a specter in your hall; The guilt of blood is at your door; You changed a wholesome heart to gall. You held your course without remorse, To make him trust his modest worth, And, last, you fixed a vacant stare, And slew him with your noble birth.

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, From yon blue heavens above us bent, The gardener Adam and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 'Tis only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood.

I know you, Clara Vere de Vere; You pine among your halls and towers: The languid light of your proud eyes Is wearied of the rolling hours. In glowing health, with boundless wealth, But sickening of a vague disease, You know so ill to deal with time, You needs must play such pranks as these.

Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, If time be heavy on your hands, Are there no beggars at your gate, Nor any poor about your lands? O, teach the orphan-boy to read, Or teach the orphan-girl to sew, Pray Heaven for a human heart, And let the foolish yeoman go.

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]



SHADOWS

They seemed, to those who saw them meet, The casual friends of every day, Her smile was undisturbed and sweet, His courtesy was free and gay.

But yet if one the other's name In some unguarded moment heard, The heart you thought so calm and tame Would struggle like a captured bird:

And letters of mere formal phrase Were blistered with repeated tears,— And this was not the work of days, But had gone on for years and years!

Alas, that love was not too strong For maiden shame and manly pride! Alas, that they delayed so long The goal of mutual bliss beside!

Yet what no chance could then reveal, And neither would be first to own, Let fate and courage now conceal, When truth could bring remorse alone.

Richard Monckton Milnes [1809-1885]



SORROWS OF WERTHER

Werther had a love for Charlotte Such as words could never utter; Would you know how first he met her? She was cutting bread and butter.

Charlotte was a married lady, And a moral man was Werther, And, for all the wealth of Indies, Would do nothing for to hurt her.

So he sighed and pined and ogled, And his passion boiled and bubbled, Till he blew his silly brains out, And no more was by it troubled.

Charlotte, having seen his body Borne before her on a shutter, Like a well-conducted person, Went on cutting bread and butter.

William Makepeace Thackeray [1811-1863]



THE AGE OF WISDOM

Ho, pretty page, with the dimpled chin, That never has known the barber's shear, All your wish is woman to win, This is the way that boys begin,— Wait till you come to Forty Year.

Curly gold locks cover foolish brains, Billing and cooing is all your cheer; Sighing, and singing of midnight strains, Under Bonnybell's window-panes,— Wait till you come to Forty Year.

Forty times over let Michaelmas pass, Grizzling hair the brain does clear— Then you know a boy is an ass, Then you know the worth of a lass, Once you have come to Forty Year.

Pledge me round; I bid ye declare, All good fellows whose beards are gray, Did not the fairest of the fair Common grow and wearisome ere Ever a month was passed away?

The reddest lips that ever have kissed, The brightest eyes that ever have shone, May pray and whisper, and we not list, Or look away and never be missed, Ere yet ever a month is gone.

Gillian's dead, God rest her bier, How I loved her twenty years syne! Marian's married, but I sit here, Alone and merry at Forty Year, Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine.

William Makepeace Thackeray [1811-1863]



ANDREA DEL SARTO Called "The Faultless Painter"

But do not let us quarrel any more, No, my Lucrezia; bear with me for once: Sit down and all shall happen as you wish. You turn your face, but does it bring your heart? I'll work then for your friend's friend, never fear, Treat his own subject after his own way, Fix his own time, accept too his own price, And shut the money into this small hand When next it takes mine. Will it? tenderly? Oh, I'll content him,—but to-morrow, Love! I often am much wearier than you think, This evening more than usual, and it seems As if—forgive now—should you let me sit Here by the window, with your hand in mine, And look a half-hour forth on Fiesole, Both of one mind, as married people use, Quietly, quietly the evening through, I might get up to-morrow to my work Cheerful and fresh as ever. Let us try. To-morrow how you shall be glad for this! Your soft hand is a woman of itself, And mine the man's bared breast she curls inside. Don't count the time lost neither; you must serve For each of the five pictures we require; It saves a model. So! keep looking so My serpentining beauty, rounds on rounds! —How could you ever prick those perfect ears, Even to put the pearl there! oh, so sweet— My face, my moon, my everybody's moon, Which everybody looks on and calls his, And, I suppose, is looked on by in turn, While she looks—no one's: very dear, no less. You smile? why, there's my picture ready made, There's what we painters call our harmony! A common grayness silvers everything,— All in a twilight, you and I alike —You, at the point of your first pride in me (That's gone you know),—but I, at every point; My youth, my hope, my art, being all toned down To yonder sober pleasant Fiesole. There's the bell clinking from the chapel-top; That length of convent wall across the way Holds the trees safer, huddled more inside; The last monk leaves the garden; days decrease, And autumn grows, autumn in everything. Eh? the whole seems to fall into a shape As if I saw alike my work and self And all that I was born to be and do, A twilight-piece. Love, we are in God's hand. How strange now looks the life he makes us lead; So free we seem, so fettered fast we are! I feel he laid the fetter; let it lie! This chamber for example—turn your head— All that's behind us! You don't understand Nor care to understand about my art, But you can hear at least when people speak: And that cartoon, the second from the door —It is the thing, Love! so such thing should be— Behold Madonna!—I am bold to say. I can do with my pencil what I know, What I see, what at bottom of my heart I wish for, if I ever wish so deep— Do easily, too—when I say, perfectly, I do not boast, perhaps: yourself are judge, Who listened to the Legate's talk last week, And just as much they used to say in France. At any rate 'tis easy, all of it! No sketches first, no studies, that's long past; I do what many dream of all their lives, —Dream? strive to do, and agonize to do, And fail in doing. I could count twenty such On twice your fingers, and not leave this town, Who strive—you don't know how the others strive To paint a little thing like that you smeared Carelessly passing with your robes afloat,— Yet do much less, so much less, Someone says, (I know his name, no matter)—so much less! Well, less is more, Lucrezia: I am judged. There burns a truer light of God in them, In their vexed beating stuffed and stopped-up brain, Heart, or whate'er else, than goes on to prompt This low-pulsed forthright craftsman's hand of mine. Their works drop groundward, but themselves, I know, Reach many a time a heaven that's shut to me, Enter and take their place there sure enough, Though they come back and cannot tell the world. My works are nearer heaven, but I sit here. The sudden blood of these men! at a word— Praise them, it boils, or blame them, it boils too. I, painting from myself and to myself, Know what I do, am unmoved by men's blame Or their praise either. Somebody remarks Morello's outline there is wrongly traced, His hue mistaken; what of that? or else, Rightly traced and well ordered; what of that? Speak as they please, what does the mountain care? Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, Or what's a heaven for? All is silver-gray; Placid and perfect with my art; the worse! I know both what I want and what might gain; And yet how profitless to know, to sigh "Had I been two, another and myself, Our head would have o'erlooked the world!" No doubt. Yonder's a work now, of that famous youth The Urbinate who died five years ago. ('Tis copied, George Vasari sent it me.) Well, I can fancy how he did it all, Pouring his soul, with kings and popes to see, Reaching, that heaven might so replenish him, Above and through his art—for it gives way; That arm is wrongly put—and there again— A fault to pardon in the drawing's lines, Its body, so to speak: its soul is right, He means right,—that, a child may understand. Still, what an arm! and I could alter it: But all the play, the insight and the stretch— Out of me, out of me! And wherefore out? Had you enjoined them on me, given me soul, We might have risen to Rafael, I and you! Nay, Love, you did give all I asked, I think— More than I merit, yes, by many times. But had you—oh, with the same perfect brow, And perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth, And the low voice my soul hears, as a bird The fowler's pipe, and follows to the snare— Had you, with these the same, but brought a mind! Some women do so. Had the mouth there urged, "God and the glory! never care for gain. The present by the future, what is that? Live for fame, side by side with Agnolo! Rafael is waiting: up to God, all three!" I might have done it for you. So it seems: Perhaps not. All is as God overrules. Beside, incentives come from the soul's self; The rest avail not. Why do I need you? What wife had Rafael, or has Agnolo? In this world, who can do a thing, will not; And who would do it, cannot, I perceive: Yet the will's somewhat—somewhat, too, the power— And thus we half-men struggle. At the end, God I conclude, compensates, punishes. 'Tis safer for me, if the award be strict, That I am something underrated here, Poor this long while, despised, to speak the truth. I dared not, do you know, leave home all day, For fear of chancing on the Paris lords. The best is when they pass and look aside; But they speak sometimes; I must bear it all. Well may they speak! That Francis, that first time, And that long festal year at Fontainebleau! I surely then could sometimes leave the ground, Put on the glory, Rafael's daily wear, In that humane great monarch's golden look,— One finger in his beard or twisted curl Over his mouth's good mark that made the smile, One arm about my shoulder, round my neck, The jingle of his gold chain in my ear, I painting proudly with his breath on me, All his court round him, seeing with his eyes, Such frank French eyes, and such a fire of souls Profuse, my hand kept plying by those hearts,— And, best of all, this, this, this face beyond, This in the background, waiting on my work; To crown the issue with a last reward! A good time, was it not, my kingly days? And had you not grown restless... but I know— 'Tis done and past; 'twas right, my instinct said; Too live the life grew, golden and not gray, And I'm the weak-eyed bat no sun should tempt Out of the grange whose four walls make his world. How could it end in any other way? You called me, and I came home to your heart. The triumph was,—to reach and stay there; since I reached it ere the triumph, what is lost? Let my hands frame your face in your hair's gold, You beautiful Lucrezia that are mine! "Rafael did this, Andrea painted that; The Roman's is the better when you pray, But still the other's Virgin was his wife— Men will excuse me. I am glad to judge Both pictures in your presence; clearer grows My better fortune, I resolve to think. For do you know, Lucrezia, as God lives, Said one day Agnolo, his very self To Rafael... I have known it all these years... (When the young man was flaming out his thoughts Upon a palace-wall for Rome to see, Too lifted up in heart because of it) Friend, there's a certain sorry little scrub Goes up and down our Florence, none cares how, Who, were he set to plan and execute As you are, pricked on by your popes and kings, Would bring the sweat into that brow of yours!" To Rafael's! And indeed the arm is wrong. I hardly dare... yet, only you to see, Give the chalk here—quick, thus the line should go! Ay, but the soul! he's Rafael! rub it out! Still, all I care for, if he spoke the truth, (What he? why, who but Michel Agnolo? Do you forget already words like those?) If really there was such a chance, so lost,— Is, whether you're—not grateful—but more pleased. Well, let me think so. And you smile indeed! This hour has been an hour! Another smile? If you would sit thus by me every night I should work better, do you comprehend? I mean that I should earn more, give you more. See, it is settled dusk now; there's a star; Morello's gone, the watch-lights show the wall, The cue-owls speak the name we call them by. Come from the window, love,—come in, at last, Inside the melancholy little house We built to be so gay with. God is just. King Francis may forgive me: oft at nights When I look up from painting, eyes tired out, The walls become illumined, brick from brick Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce bright gold, That gold of his I did cement them with! Let us but love each other. Must you go? That Cousin here again? he waits outside? Must see you—you, and not with me? Those loans? More gaming debts to pay? you smiled for that? Well, let smiles buy me! have you more to spend? While hand and eye and something of a heart Are left me, work's my ware, and what's it worth? I'll pay my fancy. Only let me sit The gray remainder of the evening out, Idle, you call it, and muse perfectly How I could paint, were I but back in France, One picture, just one more,—the Virgin's face, Not yours this time! I want you at my side To hear them—that is Michel Agnolo— Judge all I do and tell you of its worth. Will you? To-morrow, satisfy your friend. I take the subjects for his corridor, Finish the portrait out of hand—there, there, And throw him in another thing or two If he demurs; the whole should prove enough To pay for this same Cousin's freak. Beside, What's better and what's all I care about, Get you the thirteen scudi for the ruff! Love, does that please you? Ah, but what does he, The Cousin! what does he to please you more?

I am grown peaceful as old age to-night. I regret little, I would change still less. Since there my past life lies, why alter it? The very wrong to Francis!—it is true I took his coin, was tempted and complied, And built this house and sinned, and all is said. My father and my mother died of want. Well, had I riches of my own? you see How one gets rich! Let each one bear his lot. They were born poor, lived poor, and poor they died: And I have labored somewhat in my time And not been paid profusely. Some good son Paint my two hundred pictures—let him try! No doubt, there's something strikes a balance. Yes, You loved me quite enough, it seems to-night. This must suffice me here. What would one have? In heaven, perhaps, new chances, one more chance— Four great walls in the New Jerusalem, Meted on each side by the angel's reed, For Leonard, Rafael, Agnolo, and me To cover,—the three first without a wife, While I have mine! So—still they overcome Because there's still Lucrezia,—as I choose.

Again the Cousin's whistle! Go, my love.

Robert Browning [1812-1889]



MY LAST DUCHESS Ferrara

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive. I call That piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf's hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands. Will't please you sit and look at her? I said "Fra Pandolf" by design, for never read Strangers like you that pictured countenance, The depth and passion of its earnest glance, But to myself they turned (since none puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, How such a glance came there; so, not the first Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not Her husband's presence only, called that spot Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps Fra Pandolf chanced to say, "Her mantle laps Over my lady's wrist too much," or "Paint Must never hope to reproduce the faint Half-flush that dies along her throat": such stuff Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough For calling up that spot of joy. She had A heart—how shall I say?—too soon made glad, Too easily impressed: she liked whate'er She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. Sir, 'twas all one! My favor at her breast, The dropping of the daylight in the West, The bough of cherries some officious fool Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule She rode with round the terrace—all and each Would draw from her alike the approving speech, Or blush, at least. She thanked men,—good! but thanked Somehow—I know not how—as if she ranked My gift of a nine hundred-years-old name With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame This sort of trifling? Even had you skill In speech—(which I have not)—to make your will Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, Or there exceed the mark"—and if she let Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, —E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt, Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet The company below, then. I repeat, The Count your master's known munificence Is ample warrant that no just pretense Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

Robert Browning [1812-1889]



ADAM, LILITH, AND EVE

One day, it thundered and lightened. Two women, fairly frightened, Sank to their knees, transformed, transfixed, At the feet of the man who sat betwixt; And "Mercy!" cried each—"if I tell the truth Of a passage in my youth!"

Said This: "Do you mind the morning I met your love with scorning? As the worst of the venom left my lips, I thought, 'If, despite this lie, he strips The mask from my soul with a kiss—I crawl His slave,—soul, body, and all!'"

Said That: "We stood to be married; The priest, or some one, tarried; 'If Paradise-door prove locked?' smiled you. I thought, as I nodded, smiling too, 'Did one, that's away, arrive—nor late Nor soon should unlock Hell's gate!'"

It ceased to lighten and thunder. Up started both in wonder, Looked around and saw that the sky was clear, Then laughed "Confess you believed us, Dear!" "I saw through the joke!" the man replied They re-seated themselves beside.

Robert Browning [1812-1889]



THE LOST MISTRESS

All's over, then: does truth sound bitter As one at first believes? Hark, 'tis the sparrows' good-night twitter About your cottage eaves!

And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly, I noticed that, to-day; One day more bursts them open fully —You know the red turns gray.

To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest? May I take your hand in mine? Mere friends are we,—well, friends the merest Keep much that I resign:

For each glance of the eye so bright and black, Though I keep with heart's endeavor,— Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back, Though it stay in my soul forever!—

Yet I will but say what mere friends say, Or only a thought stronger; I will hold your hand but as long as all may, Or so very little longer!

Robert Browning [1812-1889]



FRIEND AND LOVER

When Psyche's friend becomes her lover, How sweetly these conditions blend! But, oh, what anguish to discover Her lover has become—her friend!

Mary Ainge de Vere [1844-1920]



LOST LOVE

Who wins his Love shall lose her, Who loses her shall gain, For still the spirit wooes her, A soul without a stain; And Memory still pursues her With longings not in vain!

He loses her who gains her, Who watches day by day The dust of time that stains her, The griefs that leave her gray, The flesh that yet enchains her Whose grace hath passed away!

Oh, happier he who gains not The Love some seem to gain: The joy that custom stains not Shall still with him remain, The loveliness that wanes not, The Love that ne'er can wane.

In dreams she grows not older The lands of Dream among, Though all the world wax colder, Though all the songs be sung, In dreams doth he behold her Still fair and kind and young.

Andrew Lang [1844-1912]



VOBISCUM EST IOPE

When thou must home to shades of underground, And there arrived, a new admired guest, The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round, White Iope, blithe Helen, and the rest, To hear the stories of thy finished love From that smooth tongue whose music hell can move;

Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights, Of masques and revels which sweet youth did make, Of tourneys and great challenges of knights, And all these triumphs for thy beauty's sake: When thou hast told these honors done to thee, Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder me!

Thomas Campion [?—1619]



FOUR WINDS

"Four winds blowing through the sky, You have seen poor maidens die, Tell me then what I shall do That my lover may be true." Said the wind from out the south, "Lay no kiss upon his mouth," And the wind from out the west, "Wound the heart within his breast," And the wind from out the east, "Send him empty from the feast," And the wind from out the north, "In the tempest thrust him forth; When thou art more cruel than he, Then will Love be kind to thee."

Sara Teasdale [1884-1933]



TO MANON As To His Choice Of Her

If I had chosen thee, thou shouldst have been A virgin proud, untamed, immaculate, Chaste as the morning star, a saint, a queen, Scarred by no wars, no violence of hate. Thou shouldst have been of soul commensurate With thy fair body, brave and virtuous And kind and just; and if of poor estate, At least an honest woman for my house. I would have had thee come of honored blood And honorable nurture. Thou shouldst bear Sons to my pride and daughters to my heart, And men should hold thee happy, wise, and good. Lo, thou art none of this, but only fair, Yet must I love thee, dear, and as thou art.

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt [1840-1922]



CROWNED

You came to me bearing bright roses, Red like the wine of your heart; You twisted them into a garland To set me aside from the mart. Red roses to crown me your lover, And I walked aureoled and apart.

Enslaved and encircled, I bore it, Proud token of my gift to you. The petals waned paler, and shriveled, And dropped; and the thorns started through. Bitter thorns to proclaim me your lover, A diadem woven with rue.

Amy Lowell [1874-1925]



HEBE

I saw the twinkle of white feet, I saw the flash of robes descending; Before her ran an influence fleet, That bowed my heart like barley bending.

As, in bare fields, the searching bees Pilot to blooms beyond our finding, It led me on, by sweet degrees Joy's simple honey-cells unbinding.

Those Graces were that seemed grim Fates; With nearer love the sky leaned o'er me; The long-sought Secret's golden gates On musical hinges swung before me.

I saw the brimmed bowl in her grasp Thrilling with godhood; like a lover I sprang the proffered life to clasp;— The beaker fell; the luck was over.

The Earth has drunk the vintage up; What boots it patch the goblet's splinters? Can Summer fill the icy cup Whose treacherous crystal is but Winter's?

O spendthrift haste! await the Gods; Their nectar crowns the lips of Patience; Haste scatters on unthankful sods The immortal gift in vain libations.

Coy Hebe flies from those that woo, And shuns the hands would seize upon her; Follow thy life, and she will sue To pour for thee the cup of honor.

James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]



"JUSTINE, YOU LOVE ME NOT!" "Helas! vous ne m'aimez pas."—Piron

I know, Justine, you speak me fair As often as we meet; And 'tis a luxury, I swear, To hear a voice so sweet; And yet it does not please me quite, The civil way you've got; For me you're something too polite— Justine, you love me not!

I know Justine, you never scold At aught that I may do: If I am passionate or cold, 'Tis all the same to you. "A charming temper," say the men, "To smooth a husband's lot": I wish 'twere ruffled now and then— Justine you love me not!

I know, Justine, you wear a smile As beaming as the sun; But who supposes all the while It shines for only one? Though azure skies are fair to see, A transient cloudy spot In yours would promise more to me— Justine, you love me not!

I know, Justine, you make my name Your eulogistic theme, And say—if any chance to blame— You hold me in esteem. Such words, for all their kindly scope, Delight me not a jot; Just as you would have praised the Pope— Justine, you love me not!

I know, Justine—for I have heard What friendly voices tell— You do not blush to say the word, "You like me passing well"; And thus the fatal sound I hear That seals my lonely lot: There's nothing now to hope or fear— Justine, you love me not!

John Godfrey Saxe [1816-1887]



SNOWDROP

When, full of warm and eager love, I clasp you in my fond embrace, You gently push me back and say, "Take care, my dear, you'll spoil my lace."

You kiss me just as you would kiss Some woman friend you chanced to see; You call me "dearest."—All love's forms Are yours, not its reality.

Oh, Annie! cry, and storm, and rave! Do anything with passion in it! Hate me an hour, and then turn round And love me truly, just one minute.

William Wetmore Story [1819-1895]



WHEN THE SULTAN GOES TO ISPAHAN

When the Sultan Shah-Zaman Goes to the city Ispahan, Even before he gets so far As the place where the clustered palm-trees are, At the last of the thirty palace-gates, The flower of the harem, Rose-in-Bloom, Orders a feast in his favorite room— Glittering squares of colored ice, Sweetened with syrop, tinctured with spice, Creams, and cordials, and sugared dates, Syrian apples, Othmanee quinces, Limes, and citrons, and apricots, And wines that are known to Eastern princes; And Nubian slaves, with smoking pots Of spiced meats and costliest fish And all that the curious palate could wish, Pass in and out of the cedarn doors; Scattered over mosaic floors Are anemones, myrtles, and violets, And a musical fountain throws its jets Of a hundred colors into the air. The dusk Sultana loosens her hair, And stains with the henna-plant the tips Of her pointed nails, and bites her lips Till they bloom again; but, alas, that rose Not for the Sultan buds and blows, Not for the Sultan Shah-Zaman When he goes to the city Ispahan.

Then at a wave of her sunny hand The dancing-girls of Samarcand Glide in like shapes from fairy-land, Making a sudden mist in air Of fleecy veils and floating hair And white arms lifted. Orient blood Runs in their veins, shines in their eyes. And there, in this Eastern Paradise, Filled with the breath of sandal-wood, And Khoten musk, and aloes and myrrh, Sits Rose-in-Bloom on a silk divan, Sipping the wines of Astrakhan; And her Arab lover sits with her. That's when the Sultan Shah-Zaman Goes to the city Ispahan.

Now, when I see an extra light, Flaming, flickering on the night From my neighbor's casement opposite, I know as well as I know to pray, I know as well as a tongue can say, That the innocent Sultan Shah-Zaman Has gone to the city Ispahan.

Thomas Bailey Aldrich [1837-1907]



THE SHADOW DANCE

She sees her image in the glass,— How fair a thing to gaze upon! She lingers while the moments run, With happy thoughts that come and pass,

Like winds across the meadow grass When the young June is just begun: She sees her image in the glass,— How fair a thing to gaze upon!

What wealth of gold the skies amass! How glad are all things 'neath the sun! How true the love her love has won! She recks not that this hour will pass,— She sees her image in the glass.

Louise Chandler Moulton [1835-1908]



"ALONG THE FIELD AS WE CAME BY"

Along the field as we came by A year ago, my love and I, The aspen over stile and stone Was talking to itself alone. "Oh, who are these that kiss and pass? A country lover and his lass; Two lovers looking to be wed; And time shall put them both to bed, But she shall lie with earth above, And he beside another love."

And sure enough beneath the tree There walks another love with me, And overhead the aspen heaves Its rainy-sounding silver leaves; And I spell nothing in their stir, But now perhaps they speak to her, And plain for her to understand They talk about a time at hand When I shall sleep with clover clad, And she beside another lad.

Alfred Edward Housman [1859-1936]



"WHEN I WAS ONE-AND-TWENTY"

When I was one-and-twenty I heard a wise man say, "Give crowns and pounds and guineas But not your heart away; Give pearls away and rubies But keep your fancy free." But I was one-and-twenty, No use to talk to me.

When I was one-and-twenty I heard him say again, "The heart out of the bosom Was never given in vain; 'Tis paid with sighs a plenty And sold for endless rue." And I am two-and-twenty, And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true.

Alfred Edward Housman [1859-1936]



"GRIEVE NOT, LADIES"

Oh, grieve not, Ladies, if at night Ye wake to feel your beauty going; It was a web of frail delight, Inconstant as an April snowing.

In other eyes, in other lands, In deep fair pools new beauty lingers; But like spent water in your hands It runs from your reluctant fingers.

You shall not keep the singing lark That owes to earlier skies its duty. Weep not to hear along the dark The sound of your departing beauty.

The fine and anguished ear of night Is tuned to hear the smallest sorrow: Oh, wait until the morning light! It may not seem so gone to-morrow.

But honey-pale and rosy-red! Brief lights that make a little shining! Beautiful looks about us shed— They leave us to the old repining.

Think not the watchful, dim despair Has come to you the first, sweet-hearted! For oh, the gold in Helen's hair! And how she cried when that departed!

Perhaps that one that took the most, The swiftest borrower, wildest spender, May count, as we would not, the cost— And grow more true to us and tender.

Happy are we if in his eyes We see no shadow of forgetting. Nay—if our star sinks in those skies We shall not wholly see its setting.

Then let us laugh as do the brooks, That such immortal youth is ours, If memory keeps for them our looks As fresh as are the springtime flowers.

So grieve not, Ladies, if at night Ye wake to feel the cold December! Rather recall the early light, And in your loved one's arms, remember.

Anna Hempstead Branch [18



SUBURB

Dull and hard the low wind creaks Among the rustling pampas plumes. Drearily the year consumes Its fifty-two insipid weeks.

Most of the gray-green meadow land Was sold in parsimonious lots; The dingy houses stand Pressed by some stout contractor's hand Tightly together in their plots.

Through builded banks the sullen river Gropes, where its houses crouch and shiver. Over the bridge the tyrant train Shrieks, and emerges on the plain.

In all the better gardens you may pass, (Product of many careful Saturdays), Large red geraniums and tall pampas grass Adorn the plots and mark the gravelled ways.

Sometimes in the background may be seen A private summer-house in white or green. Here on warm nights the daughter brings Her vacillating clerk, To talk of small exciting things And touch his fingers through the dark.

He, in the uncomfortable breach Between her trilling laughters, Promises, in halting speech, Hopeless immense Hereafters.

She trembles like the pampas plumes. Her strained lips haggle. He assumes The serious quest....

Now as the train is whistling past He takes her in his arms at last.

It's done. She blushes at his side Across the lawn—a bride, a bride.

........

The stout contractor will design, The lazy laborers will prepare, Another villa on the line; In the little garden-square Pampas grass will rustle there.

Harold Monro [1879-1932]



THE BETROTHED "You must choose between me and your cigar"— Breach of Promise case, circa 1885.

Open the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout, For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out.

We quarreled about Havanas—we fought o'er a good cheroot— And I know she is exacting, and she says I am a brute.

Open the old cigar-box—let me consider a space, In the soft blue veil of the vapor, musing on Maggie's face.

Maggie is pretty to look at—Maggie's a loving lass. But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the truest of loves must pass.

There's peace in a Laranaga, there's calm in a Henry Clay, But the best cigar in an hour is finished and thrown away—

Thrown away for another as perfect and ripe and brown— But I never could throw away Maggie for fear o' the talk o' the town!

Maggie, my wife at fifty—gray and dour and old— With never another Maggie to purchase for love or gold.

And the light of Days that have Been, the dark of the Days that Are, And Love's torch stinking and stale, like the butt of a dead cigar—

The butt of a dead cigar you are bound to keep in your pocket— With never a new one to light, though it's charred and black to the socket.

Open the old cigar-box—let me consider awhile; Here is a mild Manilla—there is a wifely smile.

Which is the better portion—bondage bought with a ring, Or a harem of dusky beauties, fifty tied in a string?

Counselors cunning and silent—comforters true and tried, And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival bride.

Thought in the early morning, solace in time of woes, Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm ere my eyelids close.

This will the fifty give me, asking naught in return, With only a Suttee's passion—to do their duty and burn.

This will the fifty give me. When they are spent and dead, Five times other fifties shall be my servants instead.

The furrows of far-off Java, the isles of the Spanish Main, When they hear that my harem is empty, will send me my brides again.

I will take no heed to their raiment, nor food for their mouths withal, So long as the gulls are nesting, so long as the showers fall.

I will scent'em with best vanilla, with tea will I temper their hides, And the Moor and the Mormon shall envy who read of the tale of my brides.

For Maggie has written a letter to give me my choice between The wee little whimpering Love and the great god Nick o' Teen.

And I have been servant of Love for barely a twelvemonth clear, But I have been Priest of Partagas a matter of seven year;

And the gloom of my bachelor days is flecked with the cheery light Of stumps that I burned to Friendship, and Pleasure, and Work, and Fight.

And I turn my eyes to the future that Maggie and I must prove, But the only light on the marshes is the Will-o'-the-Wisp of Love.

Will it see me safe through my journey, or leave me bogged in the mire? Since a puff of tobacco can cloud it, shall I follow the fitful fire?

Open the old cigar-box—let me consider anew— Old friends, and who is Maggie, that I should abandon you?

A million surplus Maggies are willing to bear the yoke; And a woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a Smoke.

Light me another Cuba—I hold to my first-sworn vows, If Maggie will have no rival, I'll have no Maggie for spouse!

Rudyard Kipling [1865-1936]



LOVE'S SADNESS



"THE NIGHT HAS A THOUSAND EYES"

The night has a thousand eyes, And the day but one; Yet the light of the bright world dies With the dying sun.

The mind has a thousand eyes, And the heart but one; Yet the light of a whole life dies When love is done.

Francis William Bourdillon [1852-1921]



"I SAW MY LADY WEEP"

I saw my Lady weep, And Sorrow proud to be advanced so In those fair eyes where all perfections keep. Her face was full of Woe, But such a Woe (believe me) as wins more hearts Than Mirth can do with her enticing parts.

Sorrow was there made fair, And Passion, wise; Tears, a delightful thing; Silence, beyond all speech, a wisdom rare: She made her sighs to sing, And all things with so sweet a sadness move As made my heart at once both grieve and love.

O fairer than aught else The world can show, leave off in time to grieve! Enough, enough: your joyful look excels: Tears kill the heart, believe. O strive not to be excellent in Woe, Which only breeds your beauty's overthrow.

Unknown



LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM

Oh! the days are gone, when Beauty bright My heart's chain wove; When my dream of life, from morn till night, Was love, still love. New hope may bloom, And days may come, Of milder, calmer beam, But there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream; No, there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream.

Though the bard to purer fame may soar, When wild youth's past; Though he win the wise, who frowned before, To smile at last; He'll never meet A joy so sweet, In all his noon of fame, As when first he sung to woman's ear His soul-felt flame, And, at every close, she blushed to hear The one loved name.

No,—that hallowed form is ne'er forgot Which first love traced; Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot On memory's waste. 'Twas odor fled As soon as shed; 'Twas morning's winged dream; 'Twas a light that ne'er can shine again On life's dull stream; Oh! 'twas light that ne'er can shine again On life's dull stream.

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]



"NOT OURS THE VOWS"

Not ours the vows of such as plight Their troth in sunny weather, While leaves are green, and skies are bright, To walk on flowers together.

But we have loved as those who tread The thorny path of sorrow, With clouds above, and cause to dread Yet deeper gloom to-morrow.

That thorny path, those stormy skies, Have drawn our spirits nearer; And rendered us, by sorrow's ties, Each to the other dearer.

Love, born in hours of joy and mirth, With mirth and joy may perish; That to which darker hours gave birth Still more and more we cherish.

It looks beyond the clouds of time, And through death's shadowy portal; Made by adversity sublime, By faith and hope immortal.

Bernard Barton [1784-1849]



THE GRAVE OF LOVE

I dug, beneath the cypress shade, What well might seem an elfin's grave; And every pledge in earth I laid, That erst thy false affection gave.

I pressed them down the sod beneath; I placed one mossy stone above; And twined the rose's fading wreath Around the sepulcher of love.

Frail as thy love, the flowers were dead Ere yet the evening sun was set: But years shall see the cypress spread, Immutable as my regret.

Thomas Love Peacock [1785-1866]



"WE'LL GO NO MORE A ROVING"

So, we'll go no more a roving So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And Love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a roving By the light of the moon.

George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]



SONG

Sing the old song, amid the sounds dispersing That burden treasured in your hearts too long; Sing it, with voice low-breathed, but never name her: She will not hear you, in her turrets nursing High thoughts, too high to mate with mortal song— Bend o'er her, gentle Heaven, but do not claim her!

In twilight caves, and secret lonelinesses, She shades the bloom of her unearthly days; And the soft winds alone have power to woo her: Far off we catch the dark gleam of her tresses; And wild birds haunt the wood-walks where she strays, Intelligible music warbling to her.

That Spirit charged to follow and defend her,— He also, doubtless, suffers this love-pain; And she, perhaps, is sad, hearing his sighing: And yet that face is not so sad as tender; Like some sweet singer's, when her sweetest strain From the heaved heart is gradually dying!

Aubrey Thomas De Vere [1814-1902]



THE QUESTION

I dreamed that, as I wandered by the way, Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring; And gentle odors led my steps astray, Mixed with a sound of waters murmuring Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling Its green arms round the bosom of the stream, But kissed it and then fled, as thou mightest in dream.

There grew pied wind-flowers and violets; Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth, The constellated flower that never sets; Faint oxlips; tender bluebells, at whose birth The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets— Like a child, half in tenderness and mirth— Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears.

And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine, Green cowbind and the moonlight-colored may, And cherry-blossoms, and white cups whose wine Was the bright dew yet drained not by the day; And wild roses, and ivy serpentine, With its dark buds and leaves wandering astray; And flowers, azure, black, and streaked with gold, Fairer than any wakened eyes behold.

And nearer to the river's trembling edge There grew broad flag-flowers, purple pranked with white, And starry river-buds among the sedge, And floating water-lilies, broad and bright, Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge With moonlight beams of their own watery light; And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.

Methought that of these visionary flowers I made a nosegay, bound in such a way That the same hues which in their natural bowers Were mingled or opposed, the like array Kept these imprisoned children of the Hours Within my hand;—and then, elate and gay, I hastened to the spot whence I had come, That I might there present it—O! to whom?

Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822]



THE WANDERER

Love comes back to his vacant dwelling,— The old, old Love that we knew of yore! We see him stand by the open door, With his great eyes sad, and his bosom swelling.

He makes as though in our arms repelling, He fain would lie as he lay before;— Love comes back to his vacant dwelling,— The old, old Love that we knew of yore!

Ah, who shall keep us from over-spelling That sweet forgotten, forbidden lore! E'en as we doubt in our hearts once more, With a rush of tears to our eyelids welling, Love comes back to his vacant dwelling.

Austin Dobson [1840-1921]



EGYPTIAN SERENADE

Sing again the song you sung When we were together young— When there were but you and I Underneath the summer sky.

Sing the song, and o'er and o'er Though I know that nevermore Will it seem the song you sung When we were together young.

George William Curtis [1824-1892]



THE WATER LADY

Alas, the moon should ever beam To show what man should never see! I saw a maiden on a stream, And fair was she!

I stayed awhile, to see her throw Her tresses back, that all beset The fair horizon of her brow With clouds of jet.

I stayed a little while to view Her cheek, that wore, in place of red, The bloom of water, tender blue, Daintily spread.

I stayed to watch, a little space, Her parted lips if she would sing; The waters closed above her face With many a ring.

And still I stayed a little more: Alas, she never comes again! I throw my flowers from the shore, And watch in vain.

I know my life will fade away, I know that I must vainly pine, For I am made of mortal clay, But she's divine!

Thomas Hood [1799-1845]



"TRIPPING DOWN THE FIELD-PATH"

Tripping down the field-path, Early in the morn, There I met my own love 'Midst the golden corn; Autumn winds were blowing, As in frolic chase, All her silken ringlets Backward from her face; Little time for speaking Had she, for the wind, Bonnet, scarf, or ribbon, Ever swept behind.

Still some sweet improvement In her beauty shone; Every graceful movement Won me,—one by one! As the breath of Venus Seemed the breeze of morn, Blowing thus between us, 'Midst the golden corn. Little time for wooing Had we, for the wind Still kept on undoing What we sought to bind.

Oh! that autumn morning In my heart it beams, Love's last look adorning With its dream of dreams: Still, like waters flowing In the ocean shell, Sounds of breezes blowing In my spirit dwell; Still I see the field-path;— Would that I could see Her whose graceful beauty Lost is now to me!

Charles Swain [1801-1874]



LOVE NOT

Love not, love not, ye hapless sons of clay! Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flowers— Things that are made to fade and fall away, When they have blossomed but a few short hours. Love not, love not!

Love not, love not! The thing you love may die— May perish from the gay and gladsome earth; The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky, Beam on its grave as once upon its birth. Love not, love not!

Love not, love not! The thing you love may change, The rosy lip may cease to smile on you; The kindly beaming eye grow cold and strange; The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true. Love not, love not!

Love not, love not! O warning vainly said In present years, as in the years gone by! Love flings a halo round the dear one's head, Faultless, immortal—till they change or die! Love not, love not!

Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton [1808-1877]



"A PLACE IN THY MEMORY"

A place in thy memory, Dearest! Is all that I claim: To pause and look back when thou hearest The sound of my name. Another may woo thee, nearer; Another may win and wear: I care not though he be dearer, If I am remembered there.

Remember me, not as a lover Whose hope was crossed, Whose bosom can never recover The light it hath lost! As the young bride remembers the mother She loves, though she never may see, As a sister remembers a brother, O Dearest, remember me!

Could I be thy true lover, Dearest! Couldst thou smile on me, I would be the fondest and nearest That ever loved thee: But a cloud on my pathway is glooming That never must burst upon thine; And heaven, that made thee all blooming, Ne'er made thee to wither on mine.

Remember me then! O remember My calm light love! Though bleak as the blasts of November My life may prove. That life will, though lonely, be sweet If its brightest enjoyment should be A smile and kind word when we meet, And a place in thy memory.

Gerald Griffin [1803-1840]



INCLUSIONS

Oh, wilt thou have my hand, Dear, to lie along in thine? As a little stone in a running stream, it seems to lie and pine. Now drop the poor pale hand, Dear, unfit to plight with thine.

Oh, wilt thou have my cheek, Dear, drawn closer to thine own? My cheek is white, my check is worn, by many a tear run down. Now leave a little space, Dear, lest it should wet thine own.

Oh, must thou have my soul, Dear, commingled with thy soul?— Red grows the cheek, and warm the hand; the part is in the whole; Nor hands nor cheeks keep separate, when soul is joined to soul.



Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]



MARIANA Mariana in the moated grange.—Measure For Measure

With blackest moss the flower-plots Were thickly crusted, one and all: The rusted nails fell from the knots That held the pear to the gable-wall. The broken sheds looked sad and strange: Unlifted was the clinking latch; Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange. She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"

Her tears fell with the dews at even; Her tears fell ere the dews were dried; She could not look on the sweet heaven, Either at morn or eventide. After the flitting of the bats, When thickest dark did trance the sky, She drew her casement-curtain by, And glanced athwart the glooming flats. She only said, "The night is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"

Upon the middle of the night, Waking she heard the night-fowl crow: The cock sung out an hour ere light: From the dark fen the oxen's low Came to her: without hope of change, In sleep she seemed to walk forlorn, Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn About the lonely moated grange. She only said, "The day is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"

About a stone-cast from the wall A sluice with blackened waters slept, And o'er it many, round and small, The clustered marish-mosses crept. Hard by a poplar shook alway, All silver-green with gnarled bark: For leagues no other tree did mark The level waste, the rounding gray. She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"

And ever when the moon was low, And the shrill winds were up and away, In the white curtain, to and fro, She saw the gusty shadow sway. But when the moon was very low, And wild winds bound within their cell, The shadow of the poplar fell Upon her bed, across her brow. She only said, "The night is dreary He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"

All day within the dreamy house, The doors upon their hinges creaked; The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse Behind the moldering wainscot shrieked, Or from the crevice peered about. Old faces glimmered through the doors, Old footsteps trod the upper floors, Old voices called her from without. She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"

The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, The slow clock ticking, and the sound Which to the wooing wind aloof The poplar made, did all confound Her sense; but most she loathed the hour When the thick-moted sunbeam lay Athwart the chambers, and the day Was sloping toward his western bower. Then, said she, "I am very dreary, He will not come," she said; She wept, "I am aweary, aweary, O God, that I were dead!"

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]



"ASK ME NO MORE" From "The Princess"

Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea; The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape, With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape; But O too fond, when have I answered thee? Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: what answer should I give? I love not hollow cheek or faded eye: Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die! Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live; Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are sealed; I strove against the stream and all in vain; Let the great river take me to the main. No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield; Ask me no more.

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]



A WOMAN'S LAST WORD

Let's contend no more, Love, Strive nor weep: All be as before, Love, —Only sleep!

What so wild as words are? I and thou In debate, as birds are, Hawk on bough!

See the creature stalking While we speak! Hush and hide the talking, Cheek on cheek!

What so false as truth is, False to thee? Where the serpent's tooth is Shun the tree—

Where the apple reddens Never pry— Lest we lose our Edens, Eve and I!

Be a god and hold me With a charm! Be a man and fold me With thine arm!

Teach me, only teach, Love! As I ought I will speak thy speech, Love, Think thy thought—

Meet, if thou require it, Both demands, Laying flesh and spirit In thy hands.

That shall be to-morrow Not to-night: I must bury sorrow Out of sight:

—Must a little weep, Love. (Foolish me!) And so fall asleep, Love Loved by thee.

Robert Browning [1812-1889]



THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER

I said—Then, dearest, since 'tis so, Since now at length my fate I know, Since nothing all my love avails, Since all, my life seemed meant for, fails, Since this was written and needs must be— My whole heart rises up to bless Your name in pride and thankfulness! Take back the hope you gave,—I claim Only a memory of the same, —And this beside, if you will not blame; Your leave for one more last ride with me.

My mistress bent that brow of hers; Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs When pity would be softening through, Fixed me a breathing-while or two With life or death in the balance: right! The blood replenished me again; My last thought was at least not vain: I and my mistress, side by side Shall be together, breathe and ride, So, one day more am I deified. Who knows but the world may end to-night?

Hush! if you saw some western cloud All billowy-bosomed, over-bowed By many benedictions—sun's And moon's and evening-star's at once— And so, you, looking and loving best, Conscious grew, your passion drew Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too, Down on you, near and yet more near, Till flesh must fade for heaven was here!— Thus leant she and lingered-joy and fear! Thus lay she a moment on my breast.

Then we began to ride. My soul Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped scroll Freshening and fluttering in the wind. Past hopes already lay behind. What need to strive with a life awry? Had I said that, had I done this, So might I gain, so might I miss. Might she have loved me? just as well She might have hated, who can tell! Where had I been now if the worst befell? And here we are riding, she and I.

Fail I alone, in words and deeds? Why, all men strive, and who succeeds? We rode; it seemed my spirit flew, Saw other regions, cities new, As the world rushed by on either side. I thought,—All labor, yet no less Bear up beneath their unsuccess. Look at the end of work, contrast The petty done, the undone vast, This present of theirs with the hopeful past! I hoped she would love me; here we ride.

What hand and brain went ever paired? What heart alike conceived and dared? What act proved all its thought had been? What will but felt the fleshly screen? We ride and I see her bosom heave. There's many a crown for who can reach. Ten lines, a statesman's life in each! The flag stuck on a heap of bones, A soldier's doing! what atones? They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones. My riding is better, by their leave.

What does it all mean, poet? Well, Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell What we felt only; you expressed You hold things beautiful the best, And place them in rhyme so, side by side. 'Tis something, nay 'tis much: but then, Have you yourself what's best for men? Are you—poor, sick, old ere your time— Nearer one whit your own sublime Than we who never have turned a rhyme? Sing, riding's a joy! For me, I ride.