I do not love thee!—yet, when thou art gone, I hate the sound (though those who speak be near) Which breaks the lingering echo of the tone Thy voice of music leaves upon my ear.

I do not love thee!—yet thy speaking eyes, With their deep, bright, and most expressive blue, Between me and the midnight heaven arise, Oftener than any eyes I ever knew.

I know I do not love thee!—yet, alas! Others will scarcely trust my candid heart; And oft I catch them smiling as they pass, Because they see me gazing where thou art.

Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton [1808-1870]



THE PALM-TREE AND THE PINE

Beneath an Indian palm a girl Of other blood reposes, Her cheek is clear and pale as pearl, Amid that wild of roses.

Beside a northern pine a boy Is leaning fancy-bound, Nor listens where with noisy joy Awaits the impatient hound.

Cool grows the sick and feverish calm,— Relaxed the frosty twine,— The pine-tree dreameth of the palm, The palm-tree of the pine.

As soon shall nature interlace Those dimly-visioned boughs, As these young lovers face to face Renew their early vows!

Richard Monckton Milnes [1809-1885]



"O SWALLOW, SWALLOW, FLYING SOUTH" From "The Princess"

O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South, Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, And tell her, tell her what I tell to thee.

O, tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each, That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, And dark and true and tender is the North.

O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill, And cheep and twitter twenty million loves.

O, were I thou that she might take me in, And lay me on her bosom, and her heart Would rock the snowy cradle till I died!

Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love, Delaying as the tender ash delays To clothe herself, when all the woods are green?

O, tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown; Say to her, I do but wanton in the South, But in the North long since my nest is made.

O, tell her, brief is life but love is long, And brief the sun of summer in the North, And brief the moon of beauty in the South.

O Swallow, flying from the golden woods, Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine, And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee.

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]



THE FLOWER'S NAME

Here's the garden she walked across, Arm in my arm, such a short while since: Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss Hinders the hinges and makes them wince! She must have reached this shrub ere she turned, As back with that murmur the wicket swung; For she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spurned, To feed and forget it the leaves among.

Down this side of the gravel-walk She went while her robe's edge brushed the box: And here she paused in her gracious talk To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox. Roses, ranged in valiant row, I will never think that she passed you by! She loves you, noble roses, I know; But yonder see where the rock-plants lie!

This flower she stopped at, finger on lip, Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim; Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip, Its soft meandering Spanish name: What a name! Was it love or praise? Speech half-asleep, or song half-awake? I must learn Spanish, one of these days, Only for that slow sweet name's sake.

Roses, if I live and do well, I may bring her, one of these days, To fix you fast with as fine a spell, Fit you each with his Spanish phrase: But do not detain me now; for she lingers There, like sunshine over the ground, And ever I see her soft white fingers Searching after the bud she found.

Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not, Stay as you are and be loved forever! Bud, if I kiss you, 'tis that you blow not, Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never! For while it pouts, her fingers wrestle, Twinkling the audacious leaves between, Till round they turn, and down they nestle— Is not the dear mark still to be seen?

Where I find her not, beauties vanish; Whither I follow her, beauties flee; Is there no method to tell her in Spanish June's twice June since she breathed it with me? Come, bud, show me the least of her traces, Treasure my lady's lightest footfall! —Ah, you may flout and turn up your faces,— Roses, you are not so fair after all!

Robert Browning [1812-1889]



TO MARGUERITE

Yes: in the sea of life enisled, With echoing straits between us thrown, Dotting the shoreless watery wild, We mortal millions live alone. The islands feel the enclasping flow, And then their endless bounds they know.

But when the moon their hollows lights, And they are swept by balms of spring, And in their glens, on starry nights, The nightingales divinely sing; And lovely notes, from shore to shore, Across the sounds and channels pour;

O then a longing like despair Is to their farthest caverns sent! For surely once, they feel, we were Parts of a single continent. Now round us spreads the watery plain— O might our marges meet again!

Who ordered that their longing's fire Should be, as soon as kindled, cooled? Who renders vain their deep desire?— A God, a God their severance ruled; And bade betwixt their shores to be The unplumbed, salt, estranging sea.

Matthew Arnold [1822-1888]



SEPARATION

Stop!—not to me, at this bitter departing, Speak of the sure consolations of time! Fresh be the wound, still-renewed be its smarting, So but thy image endure in its prime.

But, if the steadfast commandment of Nature Wills that remembrance should always decay— If the loved form and the deep-cherished feature Must, when unseen, from the soul fade away—

Me let no half-effaced memories cumber! Fled, fled at once, be all vestige of thee! Deep be the darkness and still be the slumber— Dead be the past and its phantoms to me!

Then, when we meet, and thy look strays towards me, Scanning my face and the changes wrought there: Who, let me say, is this stranger regards me, With the gray eyes, and the lovely brown hair?

Matthew Arnold [1822-1888]



LONGING

Come to me in my dreams, and then By day I shall be well again! For then the night will more than pay The hopeless longing of the day.

Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times, A messenger from radiant climes, And smile on thy new world, and be As kind to others as to me!

Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth, Come now, and let me dream it truth; And part my hair, and kiss my brow, And say: My love! why sufferest thou?

Come to me in my dreams, and then By day I shall be well again! For then the night will more than pay The hopeless longing of the day

Matthew Arnold [1822-1888]



DIVIDED

I An empty sky, a world of heather, Purple of foxglove, yellow of broom; We two among them wading together, Shaking out honey, treading perfume.

Crowds of bees are giddy with clover, Crowds of grasshoppers skip at our feet, Crowds of larks at their matins hang over, Thanking the Lord for a life so sweet.

Flusheth the rise with her purple favor, Gloweth the cleft with her golden ring, 'Twixt the two brown butterflies waver, Lightly settle, and sleepily swing.

We two walk till the purple dieth, And short dry grass under foot is brown, But one little streak at a distance lieth Green like a ribbon to prank the down.

II Over the grass we stepped unto it, And God He knoweth how blithe we were! Never a voice to bid us eschew it: Hey the green ribbon that showed so fair!

Hey the green ribbon! we kneeled beside it, We parted the grasses dewy and sheen: Drop over drop there filtered and slided A tiny bright beck that trickled between.

Tinkle, tinkle, sweetly it sung to us, Light was our talk as of fairy bells;— Fairy wedding-bells faintly rung to us Down in their fortunate parallels.

Hand in hand, while the sun peered over, We lapped the grass on that youngling spring; Swept back its rushes, smoothed its clover, And said, "Let us follow it westering."

III A dappled sky, a world of meadows, Circling above us the black rooks fly Forward, backward; lo their dark shadows Flit on the blossoming tapestry;—

Flit on the beck; for her long grass parteth As hair from a maid's bright eyes blown back: And, lo, the sun like a lover darteth His flattering smile on her wayward track.

Sing on! we sing in the glorious weather Till one steps over the tiny strand, So narrow, in sooth, that still together On either brink we go hand in hand.

The beck grows wider, the hands must sever. On either margin, our songs all done, We move apart, while she singeth ever, Taking the course of the stooping sun.

He prays, "Come over,"—I may not follow; I cry, "Return,"—but he cannot come: We speak, we laugh, but with voices hollow; Our hands are hanging, our hearts are numb.

IV A breathing sigh, a sigh for answer, A little talking of outward things: The careless beck is a merry dancer, Keeping sweet time to the air she sings.

A little pain when the beck grows wider; "Cross to me now; for her wavelets swell"; "I may not cross,"—and the voice beside her Faintly reacheth, though heeded well.

No backward path; ah! no returning; No second crossing that ripple's flow: "Come to me now, for the west is burning; Come ere it darkens.—Ah, no! ah, no!"

Then cries of pain, and arms outreaching,— The beck grows wider and swift and deep: Passionate words as of one beseeching: The loud beck drowns them: we walk, and weep.

V A yellow moon in splendor drooping, A tired queen with her state oppressed, Low by rushes and swordgrass stooping, Lies she soft on the waves at rest.

The desert heavens have felt her sadness; Her earth will weep her some dewy tears; The wild beck ends her tune of gladness, And goeth stilly as soul that fears.

We two walk on in our grassy places On either marge of the moonlit flood, With the moon's own sadness in our faces, Where joy is withered, blossom and bud.

VI A shady freshness, chafers whirring; A little piping of leaf-hid birds; A flutter of wings, a fitful stirring; A cloud to the eastward snowy as curds.

Bare grassy slopes, where kids are tethered, Round valleys like nests all ferny-lined, Round hills, with fluttering tree-tops feathered, Swell high in their freckled robes behind.

A rose-flush tender, a thrill, a quiver, When golden gleams to the tree-tops glide; A flashing edge for the milk-white river, The beck, a river—with still sleek tide.

Broad and white, and polished as silver, On she goes under fruit-laden trees: Sunk in leafage cooeth the culver, And 'plaineth of love's disloyalties.

Glitters the dew, and shines the river, Up comes the lily and dries her bell; But two are walking apart forever, And wave their hands for a mute farewell.

VII A braver swell, a swifter sliding; The river hasteth, her banks recede. Wing-like sails on her bosom gliding Bear down the lily, and drown the reed.

Stately prows are rising and bowing (Shouts of mariners winnow the air), And level sands for banks endowing The tiny green ribbon that showed so fair.

While, O my heart! as white sails shiver, And clouds are passing, and banks stretch wide, How hard to follow, with lips that quiver, That moving speck on the far-off side.

Farther, farther; I see it, know it— My eyes brim over, it melts away: Only my heart to my heart shall show it As I walk desolate day by day.

VIII And yet I know past all doubting, truly,— A knowledge greater than grief can dim,— I know, as he loved, he will love me duly,— Yea, better, e'en better than I love him.

And as I walk by the vast calm river, The awful river so dread to see, I say, "Thy breadth and thy depth forever Are bridged by his thoughts that cross to me."

Jean Ingelow [1820-1897]



MY PLAYMATE

The pines were dark on Ramoth hill, Their song was soft and low; The blossoms in the sweet May wind Were falling like the snow.

The blossoms drifted at our feet, The orchard birds sang clear; The sweetest and the saddest day It seemed of all the year.

For, more to me than birds or flowers, My playmate left her home, And took with her the laughing spring, The music and the bloom.

She kissed the lips of kith and kin, She laid her hand in mine: What more could ask the bashful boy Who fed her father's kine?

She left us in the bloom of May: The constant years told o'er Their seasons with as sweet May morns, But she came back no more.

I walk, with noiseless feet, the round Of uneventful years; Still o'er and o'er I sow the spring And reap the autumn ears.

She lives where all the golden year Her summer roses blow; The dusky children of the sun Before her come and go.

There haply with her jeweled hands She smooths her silken gown,— No more the homespun lap wherein I shook the walnuts down.

The wild grapes wait us by the brook, The brown nuts on the hill, And still the May-day flowers make sweet The woods of Follymill.

The lilies blossom in the pond, The bird builds in the tree, The dark pines sing on Ramoth hill The slow song of the sea.

I wonder if she thinks of them, And how the old time seems,— If ever the pines of Ramoth wood Are sounding in her dreams.

I see her face, I hear her voice: Does she remember mine? And what to her is now the boy Who fed her father's kine?

What cares she that the orioles build For other eyes than ours,— That other laps with nuts are filled, And other hands with flowers?

O playmate in the golden time! Our mossy seat is green, Its fringing violets blossom yet, The old trees o'er it lean.

The winds so sweet with birch and fern A sweeter memory blow; And there in spring the veeries sing The song of long ago.

And still the pines of Ramoth wood Are moaning like the sea,— The moaning of the sea of change Between myself and thee!

John Greenleaf Whittier [1807-1892]



A FAREWELL

With all my will, but much against my heart, We two now part. My Very Dear, Our solace is, the sad road lies so clear. It needs no art, With faint, averted feet And many a tear, In our opposed paths to persevere. Go thou to East, I West. We will not say There's any hope, it is so far away. But, O, my Best, When the one darling of our widowhead, The nursling Grief Is dead, And no dews blur our eyes To see the peach-bloom come in evening skies, Perchance we may, Where now this night is day, And even through faith of still averted feet, Making full circle of our banishment, Amazed meet; The bitter journey to the bourne so sweet Seasoning the termless feast of our content With tears of recognition never dry.

Coventry Patmore [1823-1896]



DEPARTURE

It was not like your great and gracious ways! Do you, that have naught other to lament, Never, my Love, repent Of how, that July afternoon, You went, With sudden, unintelligible phrase, And frightened eye, Upon your journey of so many days Without a single kiss, or a good-bye? I knew, indeed, that you were parting soon; And so we sate, within the low sun's rays, You whispering to me, for your voice was weak, Your harrowing praise. Well, it was well To hear you such things speak, And I could tell What made your eyes a glowing gloom of love, As a warm South-wind sombers a March grove.

And it was like your great and gracious ways To turn your talk on daily things, my Dear, Lifting the luminous, pathetic lash To let the laughter flash, Whilst I drew near, Because you spoke so low that I could scarcely hear. But all at once to leave me at the last, More at the wonder than the loss aghast, With huddled, unintelligible phrase, And frightened eye, And go your journey of all days With not one kiss, or a good-bye, And the only loveless look the look with which you passed: 'Twas all unlike your great and gracious ways.

Coventry Patmore [1823-1896]



A SONG OF PARTING

My dear, the time has come to say Farewell to London town, Farewell to each familiar street, The room where we looked down Upon the people going by, The river flowing fast: The innumerable shine of lamps, The bridges and—our past.

Our past of London days and nights, When every night we dreamed Of Love and Art and Happiness, And every day it seemed Ah! little room, you held my life, In you I found my all; A white hand on the mantelpiece, A shadow on the wall.

My dear, what dinners we have had, What cigarettes and wine In faded corners of Soho, Your fingers touching mine! And now the time has come to say Farewell to London town; The prologue of our play is done, So ring the curtain down.

There lies a crowded life ahead In field and sleepy lane, A fairer picture than we saw Framed in our window-pane. There'll be the stars on summer nights, The white moon through the trees, Moths, and the song of nightingales To float along the breeze.

And in the morning we shall see The swallows in the sun, And hear the cuckoo on the hill Welcome a day begun. And life will open with the rose For me, sweet, and for you, And on our life and on the rose How soft the falling dew!

So let us take this tranquil path, But drop a parting tear For town, whose greatest gift to us Was to be lovers here.

H. C. Compton Mackenzie [1833-



SONG From "The Earthly Paradise"

Fair is the night, and fair the day, Now April is forgot of May, Now into June May falls away: Fair day! fair night! O give me back The tide that all fair things did lack Except my Love, except my Sweet!

Blow back, O wind! thou art not kind, Though thou art sweet: thou hast no mind Her hair about my Sweet to bind. O flowery sward! though thou art bright, I praise thee not for thy delight,— Thou hast not kissed her silver feet.

Thou know'st her not, O rustling tree! What dost thou then to shadow me, Whose shade her breast did never see? O flowers! in vain ye bow adown: Ye have not felt her odorous gown Brush past your heads my lips to meet.

Flow on, great river! thou mayst deem That far away, a summer stream, Thou saw'st her limbs amidst the gleam, And kissed her foot, and kissed her knee: Yet get thee swift unto the sea! With naught of true thou wilt me greet.

And Thou that men call by my name! O helpless One! hast thou no shame That thou must even look the same As while agone, as while agone When Thou and She were left alone, And hands and lips and tears did meet?

Grow weak and pine, lie down to die, O body! in thy misery, Because short time and sweet goes by. O foolish heart! how weak thou art: Break, break, because thou needs must part From thine own Love, from thine own Sweet!

William Morris [1834-1896]



AT PARTING

For a day and a night Love sang to us, played with us, Folded us round from the dark and the light; And our hearts were fulfilled of the music he made with us, Made with our hearts and our lips while he stayed with us, Stayed in mid passage his pinions from flight For a day and a night.

From his foes that kept watch with his wings had he hidden us, Covered us close from the eyes that would smite, From the feet that had tracked and the tongues that had chidden us Sheltering in shade of the myrtles forbidden us Spirit and flesh growing one with delight For a day and a night.

But his wings will not rest and his feet will not stay for us: Morning is here in the joy of its might; With his breath has he sweetened a night and a day for us: Now let him pass, and the myrtles make way for us; Love can but last in us here at his height For a day and a night.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]



"IF SHE BUT KNEW"

If she but knew that I am weeping Still for her sake, That love and sorrow grow with keeping Till they must break, My heart that breaking will adore her, Be hers and die; If she might hear me once implore her, Would she not sigh?

If she but knew that it would save me Her voice to hear, Saying she pitied me, forgave me, Must she forbear? If she were told that I was dying, Would she be dumb? Could she content herself with sighing? Would she not come?

Arthur O'Shaughnessy [1844-1881]



KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN

Kathleen Mavourneen! the gray dawn is breaking, The horn of the hunter is heard on the hill; The lark from her light wing the bright dew is shaking,— Kathleen Mavourneen! what, slumbering still? Oh, hast thou forgotten how soon we must sever? Oh! hast thou forgotten this day we must part? It may be for years, and it may be forever! Oh, why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart? Oh! why art thou silent, Kathleen Mavourneen?

Kathleen Mavourneen, awake from thy slumbers! The blue mountains glow in the sun's golden light; Ah, where is the spell that once hung on my numbers? Arise in thy beauty, thou star of my night! Mavourneen, Mavourneen, my sad tears are falling, To think that from Erin and thee I must part! It may be for years, and it may be forever! Then why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart? Then why art thou silent, Kathleen Mavourneen?

Louisa Macartney Crawford [1790-1858]



ROBIN ADAIR

What's this dull town to me? Robin's not near,— He whom I wished to see, Wished for to hear; Where's all the joy and mirth Made life a heaven on earth? O, they're all fled with thee, Robin Adair!

What made the assembly shine? Robin Adair: What made the ball so fine? Robin was there: What, when the play was o'er, What made my heart so sore? O, it was parting with Robin Adair!

But now thou art far from me, Robin Adair; But now I never see Robin Adair; Yet him I loved so well Still in my heart shall dwell; O, I can ne'er forget Robin Adair!

Welcome on shore again, Robin Adair! Welcome once more again, Robin Adair! I feel thy trembling hand; Tears in thy eyelids stand, To greet thy native land, Robin Adair!

Long I ne'er saw thee, love, Robin Adair; Still I prayed for thee, love, Robin Adair; When thou wert far at sea, Many made love to me, But still I thought on thee, Robin Adair!

Come to my heart again, Robin Adair; Never to part again, Robin Adair; And if thou still art true, I will be constant too, And will wed none but you, Robin Adair!

Caroline Keppel [1735-? ]



"IF YOU WERE HERE" A Song In Winter

O love, if you were here This dreary, weary day,— If your lips, warm and dear, Found some sweet word to say,— Then hardly would seem drear These skies of wintry gray.

But you are far away,— How far from me, my dear! What cheer can warm the day? My heart is chill with fear, Pierced through with swift dismay; A thought has turned Life sere:

If you, from far away, Should come not back, my dear; If I no more might lay My hand on yours, nor hear That voice, now sad, now gay, Caress my listening ear;

If you, from far away, Should come no more, my dear,— Then with what dire dismay Year joined to hostile year Would frown, if I should stay Where memories mock and jeer!

But I would come away To dwell with you, my dear; Through unknown worlds to stray,— Or sleep; nor hope, nor fear, Nor dream beneath the clay Of all our days that were.

Philip Bourke Marston [1850-1887]



"COME TO ME, DEAREST"

Come to me, dearest, I'm lonely without thee; Daytime and night-time, I'm thinking about thee; Night-time and daytime in dreams I behold thee; Unwelcome the waking which ceases to fold thee. Come to me, darling, my sorrows to lighten, Come in thy beauty to bless and to brighten; Come in thy womanhood, meekly and lowly, Come in thy lovingness, queenly and holy.

Swallows will flit round the desolate ruin, Telling of spring and its joyous renewing; And thoughts of thy love and its manifold treasure, Are circling my heart with a promise of pleasure. O Spring of my spirit, O May of my bosom, Shine out on my soul, till it bourgeon and blossom; The waste of my life has a rose-root within it, And thy fondness alone to the sunshine can win it.

Figure that moves like a song through the even; Features lit up by a reflex of heaven; Eyes like the skies of poor Erin, our mother, Where shadow and sunshine are chasing each other; Smiles coming seldom, but childlike and simple, Planting in each rosy cheek a sweet dimple;— O, thanks to the Saviour, that even thy seeming Is left to the exile to brighten his dreaming.

You have been glad when you knew I was gladdened; Dear, are you sad now to hear I am saddened? Our hearts ever answer in tune and in time, love, As octave to octave, and rhyme unto rhyme, love: I cannot weep but your tears will be flowing, You cannot smile but my cheek will be glowing; I would not die without you at my side, love, You will not linger when I shall have died, love.

Come to me, dear, ere I die of my sorrow, Rise on my gloom like the sun of to-morrow; Strong, swift, and fond are the words which I speak, love, With a song on your lip and a smile on your cheek, love. Come, for my heart in your absence is weary,— Haste, for my spirit is sickened and dreary,— Come to my arms which alone should caress thee, Come to the heart which is throbbing to press thee!

Joseph Brenan [1829-1857]



SONG

'Tis said that absence conquers love! But, oh! believe it not; I've tried, alas! its power to prove, But thou art not forgot. Lady, though fate has bid us part, Yet still thou art as dear, As fixed in this devoted heart, As when I clasped thee here.

I plunge into the busy crowd, And smile to hear thy name; And yet, as if I thought aloud, They know me still the same; And when the wine-cup passes round, I toast some other fair,— But when I ask my heart the sound, Thy name is echoed there.

And when some other name I learn, And try to whisper love, Still will my heart to thee return Like the returning dove. In vain! I never can forget, And would not be forgot; For I must bear the same regret, Whate'er may be my lot.

E'en as the wounded bird will seek Its favorite bower to die, So, lady! I would hear thee speak, And yield my parting sigh. 'Tis said that absence conquers love! But, oh! believe it not; I've tried, alas! its power to prove, But thou art not forgot.

Frederick William Thomas [1811-1864]



PARTING

Too fair, I may not call thee mine: Too dear, I may not see Those eyes with bridal beacons shine; Yet, Darling, keep for me— Empty and hushed, and safe apart,— One little corner of thy heart.

Thou wilt be happy, dear! and bless Thee: happy mayst thou be. I would not make thy pleasure less; Yet, Darling, keep for me— My life to light, my lot to leaven,— One little corner of thy Heaven.

Good-by, dear heart! I go to dwell A weary way from thee; Our first kiss is our last farewell; Yet, Darling, keep for me— Who wander outside in the night,— One little corner of thy light.

Gerald Massey [1828-1907]



THE PARTING HOUR

Not yet, dear love, not yet: the sun is high; You said last night, "At sunset I will go." Come to the garden, where when blossoms die No word is spoken; it is better so: Ah! bitter word "Farewell."

Hark! how the birds sing sunny songs of spring! Soon they will build, and work will silence them; So we grow less light-hearted as years bring Life's grave responsibilities—and then The bitter word "Farewell."

The violets fret to fragrance 'neath your feet, Heaven's gold sunlight dreams aslant your hair: No flower for me! your mouth is far more sweet. O, let my lips forget, while lingering there, Love's bitter word "Farewell."

Sunset already! have we sat so long? The parting hour, and so much left unsaid! The garden has grown silent—void of song, Our sorrow shakes us with a sudden dread! Ah! bitter word "Farewell."

Olive Custance [1874-



A SONG OF AUTUMN

All through the golden weather Until the autumn fell, Our lives went by together So wildly and so well.

But autumn's wind uncloses The heart of all your flowers; I think, as with the roses, So hath it been with ours.

Like some divided river Your ways and mine will be, To drift apart for ever, For ever till the sea.

And yet for one word spoken, One whisper of regret, The dream had not been broken, And love were with us yet.

Rennell Rodd [1858-



THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME

The dames of France are fond and free, And Flemish lips are willing, And soft the maids of Italy, And Spanish eyes are thrilling; Still, though I bask beneath their smile, Their charms fail to bind me, And my heart falls back to Erin's Isle, To the girl I left behind me.

For she's as fair as Shannon's side, And purer than its water, But she refused to be my bride Though many a year I sought her; Yet, since to France I sailed away, Her letters oft remind me That I promised never to gainsay The girl I left behind me.

She says, "My own dear love, come home, My friends are rich and many, Or else abroad with you I'll roam, A soldier stout as any; If you'll not come, nor let me go, I'll think you have resigned me,"— My heart nigh broke when I answered "No," To the girl I left behind me.

For never shall my true love brave A life of war and toiling, And never as a skulking slave I'll tread my native soil on; But, were it free or to be freed, The battle's close would find me To Ireland bound, nor message need From the girl I left behind me.

Unknown



"WHEN WE ARE PARTED"

When we are parted let me lie In some far corner of thy heart, Silent, and from the world apart, Like a forgotten melody: Forgotten of the world beside, Cherished by one, and one alone, For some loved memory of its own; So let me in thy heart abide When we are parted.

When we are parted, keep for me The sacred stillness of the night; That hour, sweet Love, is mine by right; Let others claim the day of thee! The cold world sleeping at our feet, My spirit shall discourse with thine;— When stars upon thy pillow shine, At thy heart's door I stand and beat, Though we are parted.

Hamilton Aide [1826-1906]



REMEMBER OR FORGET

I sat beside the streamlet, I watched the water flow, As we together watched it One little year ago: The soft rain pattered on the leaves, The April grass was wet. Ah! folly to remember; 'Tis wiser to forget.

The nightingales made vocal June's palace paved with gold; I watched the rose you gave me Its warm red heart unfold; But breath of rose and bird's song Were fraught with wild regret. 'Tis madness to remember; 'Twere wisdom to forget.

I stood among the gold corn, Alas! no more, I knew, To gather gleaner's measure Of the love that fell from you. For me, no gracious harvest— Would God we ne'er had met! 'Tis hard, Love, to remember, But 'tis harder to forget.

The streamlet now is frozen, The nightingales are fled, The cornfields are deserted, And every rose is dead. I sit beside my lonely fire, And pray for wisdom yet: For calmness to remember, Or courage to forget.

Hamilton Aide [1826-1906]



NANCY DAWSON

Nancy Dawson, Nancy Dawson, Not so very long ago Some one wronged you from sheer love, dear; Little thinking it would crush, dear, All I cherished in you so. But now, what's the odds, my Nancy? Where's the guinea, there's the fancy. Are you Nancy, that old Nancy? Nancy Dawson.

Nancy Dawson, Nancy Dawson, I forget you, what you were; Till I feel the sad hours creep, dear, O'er my heart; as o'er my cheek, dear, Once of old, that old, old hair: And then, unawares, my Nancy, I remember, and I fancy You are Nancy, that old Nancy; Nancy Dawson.

Herbert P. Horne [1864-



MY LITTLE LOVE

God keep you safe, my little love, All through the night. Rest close in His encircling arms Until the light. My heart is with you as I kneel to pray, "Good night! God keep you in His care alway."

Thick shadows creep like silent ghosts About my bed. I lose myself in tender dreams While overhead The moon comes stealing through the window bars. A silver sickle gleaming 'mid the stars.

For I, though I am far away, Feel safe and strong, To trust you thus, dear love, and yet The night is long. I say with sobbing breath the old fond prayer, "Good night! Sweet dreams! God keep you everywhere!"

Charles B. Hawley [1858-



FOR EVER

Thrice with her lips she touched my lips, Thrice with her hand my hand, And three times thrice looked towards the sea, But never to the land: Then, "Sweet," she said, "no more delay, For Heaven forbids a longer stay."

I, with my passion in my heart, Could find no words to waste; But striving often to depart, I strained her to my breast: Her wet tears washed my weary cheek; I could have died, but could not speak.

The anchor swings, the sheet flies loose And, bending to the breeze, The tall ship, never to return, Flies through the foaming seas: Cheerily ho! the sailors cry;— My sweet love lessening to my eye.

O Love, turn towards the land thy sight! No more peruse the sea; Our God, who severs thus our hearts, Shall surely care for thee: For me let waste-wide ocean swing, I too lie safe beneath His wing.

William Caldwell Roscoe [1823-1859]



AUF WIEDERSEHEN

The little gate was reached at last, Half hid in lilacs down the lane; She pushed it wide, and, as she passed, A wistful look she backward cast, And said,—"Auf wiedersehen!"

With hand on latch, a vision white Lingered reluctant, and again Half doubting if she did aright, Soft as the dews that fell that night, She said,—"Auf wiedersehen!"

The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair; I linger in delicious pain; Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air To breathe in thought I scarcely dare, Thinks she,—"Auf wiedersehen?"...

'Tis thirteen years; once more I press The turf that silences the lane; I hear the rustle of her dress, I smell the lilacs, and—ah, yes, I hear,—"Auf wiedersehen!"

Sweet piece of bashful maiden art! The English words had seemed too fain, But these—they drew us heart to heart, Yet held us tenderly apart; She said,—"Auf wiedersehen!"

James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]



"FOREVER AND A DAY"

I little know or care If the blackbird on the bough Is filling all the air With his soft crescendo now; For she is gone away, And when she went she took The springtime in her look, The peachblow on her cheek, The laughter from the brook, The blue from out the May— And what she calls a week Is forever and a day!

It's little that I mind How the blossoms, pink or white, At every touch of wind Fall a-trembling with delight; For in the leafy lane, Beneath the garden-boughs, And through the silent house One thing alone I seek. Until she come again The May is not the May, And what she calls a week Is forever and a day!

Thomas Bailey Aldrich [1837-1907]



OLD GARDENS

The white rose tree that spent its musk For lovers' sweeter praise, The stately walks we sought at dusk, Have missed thee many days.

Again, with once-familiar feet, I tread the old parterre— But, ah, its bloom is now less sweet Than when thy face was there.

I hear the birds of evening call; I take the wild perfume; I pluck a rose—to let it fall And perish in the gloom.

Arthur Upson [1877-1908]



FERRY HINKSEY

Beyond the ferry water That fast and silent flowed, She turned, she gazed a moment, Then took her onward road

Between the winding willows To a city white with spires; It seemed a path of pilgrims To the home of earth's desires.

Blue shade of golden branches Spread for her journeying, Till he that lingered lost her Among the leaves of Spring.

Laurence Binyon [1869—



WEARYIN' FER YOU

Jest a-wearyin' fer you— All the time a-feelin' blue; Wishin' fer you—wonderin' when You'll be comin' home again; Restless—don't know what to do— Jest a-wearyin' fer you!

Keep a-mopin' day by day: Dull—in everybody's way; Folks they smile an' pass along Wonderin' what on earth is wrong; 'Twouldn't help 'em if they knew— Jest a-wearyin' fer you.

Room's so lonesome, with your chair Empty by the fireplace there, Jest can't stand the sight o' it! Go outdoors an' roam a bit: But the woods is lonesome, too, Jest a-wearyin' fer you.

Comes the wind with sounds that' jes' Like the rustlin' o' your dress; An' the dew on flower an' tree Tinkles like your steps to me! Violets, like your eyes so blue— Jest a-wearyin' fer you!

Mornin' comes, the birds awake (Them that sung so fer your sake!), But there's sadness in the notes That come thrillin' from their throats! Seem to feel your absence, too— Jest a-wearyin' fer you.

Evenin' comes: I miss you more When the dark is in the door; 'Pears jest like you orter be There to open fer me! Latch goes tinklin'—thrills me through, Sets me wearyin' fer you!

.........

Jest a-wearyin' fer you— All the time a-feelin' blue! Wishin' fer you—wonderin' when You'll be comin' home again; Restless—don't know what to do— Jest a-wearyin' fer you!

Frank L. Stanton [1857-1927]



THE LOVERS OF MARCHAID

Dominic came riding down, sworded, straight and splendid, Drave his hilt against her door, flung a golden chain. Said: "I'll teach your lips a song sweet as his that's ended, Ere the white rose call the bee, the almond flower again."

But he only saw her head bent within the gloom Over heaps of bridal thread bright as apple-bloom, Silver silk like rain that spread across the driving loom.

Dreaming Fanch, the cobbler's son, took his tools and laces, Wrought her shoes of scarlet dye, shoes as pale as snow; "They shall lead her wildrose feet all the fairy paces Danced along the road of love, the road such feet should go"—

But he only saw her eyes turning from his gift Out towards the silver skies where the white clouds drift, Where the wild gerfalcon flies, where the last sails lift.

Bran has built his homestead high where the hills may shield her, Where the young bird waits the spring, where the dawns are fair, Said: "I'll name my trees for her, since I may not yield her Stars of morning for her feet, of evening for her hair."

But he did not see them ride, seven dim sail and more, All along the harbor-side, white from shore to shore, Nor heard the voices of the tide crying at her door.

Jean-Marie has touched his pipe down beside the river When the young fox bends the fern, when the folds are still, Said: "I send her all the gifts that my love may give her,— Golden notes like golden birds to seek her at my will."

But he only found the waves, heard the sea-gull's cry, In and out the ocean caves, underneath the sky, All above the wind-washed graves where dead seamen lie.

Marjorie L. C. Pickthall [1883-1922]



SONG

She's somewhere in the sunlight strong, Her tears are in the falling rain, She calls me in the wind's soft song, And with the flowers she comes again.

Yon bird is but her messenger, The moon is but her silver car; Yea! sun and moon are sent by her, And every wistful waiting star.

Richard Le Gallienne [1866-



THE LOVER THINKS OF HIS LADY IN THE NORTH

Now many are the stately ships that northward steam away, And gray sails northward blow black hulls, and many more are they; And myriads of viking gulls flap to the northern seas: But Oh my thoughts that go to you are more than all of these!

The winds blow to the northward like a million eager wings, The driven sea a million white-capped waves to northward flings: I send you thoughts more many than the waves that fleck the sea, More eager than tempestuous winds, O Love long leagues from me!

O Love, long leagues from me, I would I trod the drenched deck Of some ship speeding to the North and staunch against all wreck, I would I were a sea-gull strong of wing and void of fear: Unfaltering and fleet I'd fly the long way to my Dear!

O if I were the sea, upon your northern land I'd beat Until my waves flowed over all, and kissed your wandering feet; And if I were the winds, I'd waft you perfumes from the South, And give my pleadings to your ears, my kisses to your mouth.

Though many ships are sailing, never one will carry me, I may not hurry northward with the gulls, the winds, the sea; But fervid thoughts they say can flash across long leagues of blue— Ah, so my love and longing must be known, Dear Heart, to you!

Shaemas O Sheel [1886-



CHANSON DE ROSEMONDE

The dawn is lonely for the sun, And chill and drear; The one lone star is pale and wan As one in fear.

But when day strides across the hills, The warm blood rushes through The bared soft bosom of the blue And all the glad east thrills.

Oh, come, my king! The hounds of joy Are waiting for thy horn To chase the doe of heart's desire Across the heights of morn.

Oh, come, my Sun, and let me know The rapture of the day! Oh, come, my love! Oh, come, my love! Thou art so long away!

Richard Hovey [1864-1900]



AD DOMNULAM SUAM

Little lady of my heart! Just a little longer, Love me: we will pass and part, Ere this love grow stronger.

I have loved thee, Child! too well, To do aught but leave thee: Nay! my lips should never tell Any tale to grieve thee.

Little lady of my heart! Just a little longer I may love thee: we will part Ere my love grow stronger.

Soon thou leavest fairy-land; Darker grow thy tresses: Soon no more of hand in hand; Soon no more caresses!

Little lady of my heart! Just a little longer Be a child; then we will part, Ere this love grow stronger.

Ernest Dowson [1867-1900]



MARIAN DRURY

Marian Drury, Marian Drury, How are the marshes full of the sea! Acadie dreams of your coming home All year through, and her heart gets free,—

Free on the trail of the wind to travel, Search and course with the roving tide, All year long where his hands unravel Blossom and berry the marshes hide.

Marian Drury, Marian Drury, How are the marshes full of the surge! April over the Norland now Walks in the quiet from verge to verge.

Burying, brimming, the building billows Fret the long dikes with uneasy foam. Drenched with gold weather, the idling willows Kiss you a hand from the Norland home.

Marian Drury, Marian Drury, How are the marshes full of the sun! Blomidon waits for your coming home, All day long where the white wings run.

All spring through they falter and follow, Wander, and beckon the roving tide, Wheel and float with the veering swallow, Lift you a voice from the blue hillside.

Marian Drury, Marian Drury, How are the marshes full of the rain! April over the Norland now Bugles for rapture, and rouses pain,—

Halts before the forsaken dwelling, Where in the twilight, too spent to roam, Love, whom the fingers of death are quelling, Cries you a cheer from the Norland home.

Marian Drury, Marian Drury, How are the marshes filled with you! Grand Pre dreams of your coming home,— Dreams while the rainbirds all night through,

Far in the uplands calling to win you, Tease the brown dusk on the marshes wide; And never the burning heart within you Stirs in your sleep by the roving tide.

Bliss Carman [1861-1929]



LOVE'S ROSARY

All day I tell my rosary For now my love's away: To-morrow he shall come to me About the break of day; A rosary of twenty hours, And then a rose of May; A rosary of fettered flowers, And then a holy-day.

All day I tell my rosary, My rosary of hours: And here's a flower of memory, And here's a hope of flowers, And here's an hour that yearns with pain For old forgotten years, An hour of loss, an hour of gain, And then a shower of tears.

All day I tell my rosary, Because my love's away; And never a whisper comes to me, And never a word to say; But, if it's parting more endears, God bring him back, I pray; Or my heart will break in the darkness Before the break of day.

All day I tell my rosary, My rosary of hours, Until an hour shall bring to me The hope of all the flowers... I tell my rosary of hours, For O, my love's away; And—a dream may bring him back to me About the break of day.

Alfred Noyes [1880-



WHEN SHE COMES HOME

When she comes home again! A thousand ways I fashion, to myself, the tenderness Of my glad welcome: I shall tremble—yes; And touch her, as when first in the old days I touched her girlish hand, nor dared upraise Mine eyes, such was my faint heart's sweet distress Then silence: and the perfume of her dress: The room will sway a little, and a haze Cloy eyesight—soul-sight, even—for a space; And tears—yes; and the ache here in the throat, To know that I so ill deserve the place Her arms make for me; and the sobbing note I stay with kisses, ere the tearful face Again is hidden in the old embrace.

James Whitcomb Riley [1849-1916]



THE TRAGEDY OF LOVE



SONG

My silks and fine array, My smiles and languished air, By Love are driven away; And mournful lean Despair Brings me yew to deck my grave: Such end true lovers have.

His face is fair as heaven When springing buds unfold: O why to him was't given, Whose heart is wintry cold? His breast is Love's all-worshipped tomb, Where all Love's pilgrims come.

Bring me an ax and spade, Bring me a winding-sheet; When I my grave have made, Let winds and tempests beat: Then down I'll lie, as cold as clay: True love doth pass away!

William Blake [1757-1827]



THE FLIGHT OF LOVE

When the lamp is shattered The light in the dust lies dead— When the cloud is scattered, The rainbow's glory is shed. When the lute is broken, Sweet tones are remembered not; When the lips have spoken, Loved accents are soon forgot.

As music and splendor Survive not the lamp and the lute, The heart's echoes render No song when the spirit is mute— No song but sad dirges, Like the wind through a ruined cell, Or the mournful surges That ring the dead seaman's knell.

When hearts have once mingled, Love first leaves the well-built nest; The weak one is singled To endure what it once possessed. O Love! who bewailest The frailty of all things here, Why choose you the frailest For your cradle, your home, and your bier?

Its passions will rock thee As the storms rock the ravens on high; Bright reason will mock thee, Like the sun from a wintry sky. From thy nest every rafter Will rot, and thine eagle home Leave thee naked to laughter, When leaves fall and cold winds come.

Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822]



"FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST PRAYER"

Farewell! if ever fondest prayer For other's weal availed on high, Mine will not all be lost in air, But waft thy name beyond the sky. 'Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh: Oh! more than tears of blood can tell, When wrung from guilt's expiring eye, Are in that word—Farewell!—Farewell!

These lips are mute, these eyes are dry: But in my breast and in my brain Awake the pangs that pass not by, The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. My soul nor deigns nor dares complain, Though grief and passion there rebel: I only know we loved in vain— I only feel—Farewell!—Farewell!

George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]



PORPHYRIA'S LOVER

The rain set early in to-night, The sullen wind was soon awake, It tore the elm-tops down for spite, And did its worst to vex the lake: I listened with heart fit to break. When glided in Porphyria; straight She shut the cold out and the storm, And kneeled and made the cheerless grate Blaze up, and all the cottage warm; Which done, she rose, and from her form Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, And laid her soiled gloves by, untied Her hat and let the damp hair fall, And, last, she sat down by my side And called me. When no voice replied, She put my arm about her waist, And made her smooth white shoulder bare, And all her yellow hair displaced, And, stooping, made my cheek lie there, And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair, Murmuring how she loved me—she Too weak, for all her heart's endeavor, To set its struggling passion free From pride, and vainer ties dissever, And give herself to me for ever. But passion sometimes would prevail, Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain A sudden thought of one so pale For love of her, and all in vain: So, she was come through wind and rain. Be sure I looked up at her eyes Happy and proud; at last I knew Porphyria worshipped me; surprise Made my heart swell, and still it grew While I debated what to do. That moment she was mine, mine, fair, Perfectly pure and good: I found A thing to do, and all her hair In one long yellow string I wound Three times her little throat around, And strangled her. No pain felt she; I am quite sure she felt no pain. As a shut bud that holds a bee, I warily oped her lids: again Laughed the blue eyes without a stain. And I untightened next the tress About her neck; her cheek once more Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss: I propped her head up as before, Only, this time my shoulder bore Her head, which droops upon it still: The smiling rosy little head, So glad it has its utmost will, That all it scorned at once is fled, And I, its love, am gained instead! Porphyria's love: she guessed not how Her darling one wish would be heard. And thus we sit together now, And all night long we have not stirred, And yet God has not said a word!

Robert Browning [1812-1889]



MODERN BEAUTY

I am the torch, she saith, and what to me If the moth die of me? I am the flame Of Beauty, and I burn that all may see Beauty, and I have neither joy nor shame. But live with that clear light of perfect fire Which is to men the death of their desire.

I am Yseult and Helen, I have seen Troy burn, and the most loving knight lies dead. The world has been my mirror, time has been My breath upon the glass; and men have said, Age after age, in rapture and despair, Love's poor few words, before my image there.

I live, and am immortal; in my eyes The sorrow of the world, and on my lips The joy of life, mingle to make me wise; Yet now the day is darkened with eclipse: Who is there lives for beauty? Still am I The torch, but where's the moth that still dares die?

Arthur Symons [1865-



LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering? The sedge has withered from the lake, And no birds sing.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel's granary is full, And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow With anguish moist and fever-dew, And on thy cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful—a fairy's child, Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She looked at me as she did love, And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed And nothing else saw all day long, For sidelong would she bend, and sing A fairy's song.

She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild and manna-dew, And sure in language strange she said, "I love thee true."

She took me to her elfin grot, And there she wept and sighed full sore; And there I shut her wild, wild eyes With kisses four.

And there she lulled me asleep, And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide! The latest dream I ever dreamed On the cold hill's side.

I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all: They cried—"La belle dame sans merci Hath thee in thrall!"

I saw their starved lips in the gloam With horrid warning gaped wide, And I awoke and found me here On the cold hill's side.

And this is why I sojourn here Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is withered from the lake, And no birds sing.

John Keats [1795-1821]



TANTALUS—TEXAS

"If I may trust your love," she cried, "And you would have me for a bride, Ride over yonder plain, and bring Your flask full from the Mustang spring; Fly, fast as western eagle's wing, O'er the Llano Estacado!"

He heard, and bowed without a word, His gallant steed he lightly spurred! He turned his face, and rode away Toward the grave of dying day, And vanished with its parting ray On the Llano Estacado.

Night came, and found him riding on, Day came, and still he rode alone. He spared not spur, he drew not rein, Across that broad, unchanging plain, Till he the Mustang spring might gain, On the Llano Estacado.

A little rest, a little draught, Hot from his hand, and quickly quaffed, His flask was filled, and then he turned. Once more his steed the maguey spurned, Once more the sky above him burned, On the Llano Estacado.

How hot the quivering landscape glowed! His brain seemed boiling as he rode— Was it a dream, a drunken one, Or was he really riding on? Was that a skull that gleamed and shone On the Llano Estacado?

"Brave steed of mine, brave steed!" he cried, "So often true, so often tried, Bear up a little longer yet!" His mouth was black with blood and sweat— Heaven! how he longed his lips to wet On the Llano Estacado.

And still, within his breast, he held The precious flask so lately filled. Oh, for a drink! But well he knew If empty it should meet her view, Her scorn—but still his longing grew On the Llano Estacado.

His horse went down. He wandered on, Giddy, blind, beaten, and alone. While upon cushioned couch you lie, Oh, think how hard it is to die, Beneath the cruel, cloudless sky On the Llano Estacado.

At last he staggered, stumbled, fell, His day was done, he knew full well, And raising to his lips the flask, The end, the object of his task, Drank to her—more she could not ask. Ah, the Llano Estacado!

That night in the Presidio, Beneath the torchlight's wavy glow, She danced—and never thought of him, The victim of a woman's whim, Lying, with face upturned and grim, On the Llano Estacado.

Joaquin Miller [1839-1913]



ENCHAINMENT

I went to her who loveth me no more, And prayed her bear with me, if so she might; For I had found day after day too sore, And tears that would not cease night after night. And so I prayed her, weeping, that she bore To let me be with her a little; yea, To soothe myself a little with her sight, Who loved me once, ah many a night and day.

Then she who loveth me no more, maybe She pitied somewhat: and I took a chain To bind myself to her, and her to me; Yea, so that I might call her mine again. Lo! she forbade me not; but I and she Fettered her fair limbs, and her neck more fair, Chained the fair wasted white of love's domain. And put gold fetters on her golden hair.

Oh! the vain joy it is to see her lie Beside me once again; beyond release, Her hair, her hand, her body, till she die, All mine, for me to do with what I please! For, after all, I find no chain whereby To chain her heart to love me as before, Nor fetter for her lips, to make them cease From saying still she loveth me no more.

Arthur O'Shaughnessy [1844-1881]



AULD ROBIN GRAY

When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame, And a' the warld to rest are gane, The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e, While my gudeman lies sound by me.

Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride; But saving a croun he had naething else beside: To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea; And the croun and the pund were baith for me.

He hadna been awa' a week but only twa, When my father brak his arm, and the kye was stown awa'; My mother she fell sick,—and my Jamie at the sea— And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin' me.

My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin; I toiled day and night, but their bread I couldna win; Auld Rob maintained them baith, and wi' tears in his e'e Said, "Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me!"

My heart it said nay; I looked for Jamie back; But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack; His ship it was a wrack—Why didna Jamie dee? Or why do I live to cry, Wae's me!

My father urged me sair: my mother didna speak; But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break: They gi'ed him my hand, though my heart was in the sea; Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.

I hadna been a wife a week but only four, When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the door, I saw my Jamie's wraith,—for I couldna think it he, Till he said, "I'm come hame to marry thee."

O, sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say; We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves away: I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee; And why was I born to say, Wae's me!

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin; I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin; But I'll do my best a gude wife aye to be, For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me.

Anne Barnard [1750-1825]



LOST LIGHT

My heart is chilled and my pulse is slow, But often and often will memory go, Like a blind child lost in a waste of snow, Back to the days when I loved you so— The beautiful long ago.

I sit here dreaming them through and through, The blissful moments I shared with you— The sweet, sweet days when our love was new, When I was trustful and you were true— Beautiful days, but few!

Blest or wretched, fettered or free, Why should I care how your life may be, Or whether you wander by land or sea? I only know you are dead to me, Ever and hopelessly.

Oh, how often at day's decline I pushed from my window the curtaining vine, To see from your lattice the lamp-light shine— Type of a message that, half divine, Flashed from your heart to mine.

Once more the starlight is silvering all; The roses sleep by the garden wall; The night bird warbles his madrigal, And I hear again through the sweet air fall The evening bugle-call.

But summers will vanish and years will wane, And bring no light to your window pane; Nor gracious sunshine nor patient rain Can bring dead love back to life again: I call up the past in vain.

My heart is heavy, my heart is old, And that proves dross which I counted gold; I watch no longer your curtain's fold; The window is dark and the night is cold, And the story forever told.

Elizabeth Akers [1832-1911]



A SIGH

It was nothing but a rose I gave her,— Nothing but a rose Any wind might rob of half its savor, Any wind that blows.

When she took it from my trembling fingers With a hand as chill— Ah, the flying touch upon them lingers, Stays, and thrills them still!

Withered, faded, pressed between the pages, Crumpled fold on fold,— Once it lay upon her breast, and ages Cannot make it old!

Harriet Prescott Spofford [1835-1921]



HEREAFTER

Love, when all the years are silent, vanished quite and laid to rest, When you and I are sleeping, folded breathless breast to breast, When no morrow is before us, and the long grass tosses o'er us, And our grave remains forgotten, or by alien footsteps pressed—

Still that love of ours will linger, that great love enrich the earth, Sunshine in the heavenly azure, breezes blowing joyous mirth; Fragrance fanning off from flowers, melody of summer showers, Sparkle of the spicy wood-fires round the happy autumn hearth.

That's our love. But you and I, dear—shall we linger with it yet, Mingled in one dew-drop, tangled in one sunbeam's golden net— On the violet's purple bosom, I the sheen, but you the blossom, Stream on sunset winds, and be the haze with which some hill is wet?

Or, beloved—if ascending—when we have endowed the world With the best bloom of our being, whither will our way be whirled, Through what vast and starry spaces, toward what awful, holy places, With a white light on our faces, spirit over spirit furled?

Only this our yearning answers: wheresoe'er that way defile, Not a film shall part us through the eons of that mighty while, In the fair eternal weather, even as phantoms still together, Floating, floating, one forever, in the light of God's great smile.

Harriet Prescott Spofford [1835-1921]



ENDYMION

The apple trees are hung with gold, And birds are loud in Arcady, The sheep lie bleating in the fold, The wild goat runs across the wold, But yesterday his love he told, I know he will come back to me. O rising moon! O Lady moon! Be you my lover's sentinel, You cannot choose but know him well, For he is shod with purple shoon, You cannot choose but know my love, For he a shepherd's crook doth bear, And he is soft as any dove, And brown and curly is his hair.

The turtle now has ceased to call Upon her crimson-footed groom, The gray wolf prowls about the stall, The lily's singing seneschal Sleeps in the lily-bell, and all The violet hills are lost in gloom. O risen moon! O holy moon! Stand on the top of Helice, And if my own true love you see, Ah! if you see the purple shoon, The hazel crook, the lad's brown hair, The goat-skin wrapped about his arm, Tell him that I am waiting where The rushlight glimmers in the Farm.

The falling dew is cold and chill, And no bird sings in Arcady, The little fauns have left the hill, Even the tired daffodil Has closed its gilded doors, and still My lover comes not back to me. False moon! False moon! O waning moon! Where is my own true lover gone, Where are the lips vermilion, The shepherd's crook, the purple shoon? Why spread that silver pavilion, Why wear that veil of drifting mist? Ah! thou hast young Endymion, Thou hast the lips that should be kissed!

Oscar Wilde [1856-1900]



"LOVE IS A TERRIBLE THING"

I went out to the farthest meadow, I lay down in the deepest shadow;

And I said unto the earth, "Hold me," And unto the night, "O enfold me!"

And unto the wind petulantly I cried, "You know not for you are free!"

And I begged the little leaves to lean Low and together for a safe screen;

Then to the stars I told my tale: "That is my home-light, there in the vale,

"And O, I know that I shall return, But let me lie first mid the unfeeling fern;

"For there is a flame that has blown too near, And there is a name that has grown too dear, And there is a fear"....

And to the still hills and cool earth and far sky I made moan, "The heart in my bosom is not my own!

"O would I were free as the wind on wing; Love is a terrible thing!"

Grace Fallow Norton [1876-



THE BALLAD OF THE ANGEL

"Who is it knocking in the night, That fain would enter in?" "The ghost of Lost Delight am I, The sin you would not sin, Who comes to look in your two eyes And see what might have been."

"Oh, long ago and long ago I cast you forth," he said, "For that your eyes were all too blue, Your laughing mouth too red, And my torn soul was tangled in The tresses of your head."

"Now mind you with what bitter words You cast me forth from you?" "I bade you back to that fair Hell From whence your breath you drew, And with great blows I broke my heart Lest it might follow too.

"Yea, from the grasp of your white hands I freed my hands that day, And have I not climbed near to God As these His henchmen may?" "Ah, man,—ah, man! 'twas my two hands That led you all the way."

"I hid my eyes from your two eyes That they might see aright." "Yet think you 'twas a star that led Your feet from height to height? It was the flame of my two eyes That drew you through the night."

With trembling hands he threw the door, Then fell upon his knee: "O, Vision armed and cloaked in light, Why do you honor me?" "The Angel of your Strength am I Who was your sin," quoth she.

"For that you slew me long ago My hands have raised you high; For that mine eyes you closed, mine eyes Are lights to lead you by; And 'tis my touch shall swing the gates Of Heaven when you die!"

Theodosia Garrison [1874-



"LOVE CAME BACK AT FALL O' DEW"

Love came back at fall o' dew, Playing his old part; But I had a word or two, That would break his heart.

"He who comes at candlelight, That should come before, Must betake him to the night From a barred door."

This the word that made us part In the fall o' dew; This the word that brake his heart— Yet it brake mine, too!

Lizette Woodworth Reese [1856-1935]



I SHALL NOT CARE

When I am dead and over me bright April Shakes out her rain-drenched hair, Though you should lean above me broken-hearted, I shall not care.

I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful When rain bends down the bough, And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted Than you are now.

Sara Teasdale [1884-1933]



OUTGROWN

Nay, you wrong her, my friend, she's not fickle; her love she has simply outgrown: One can read the whole matter, translating her heart by the light of one's own.

Can you bear me to talk with you frankly? There is much that my heart would say; And you know we were children together, have quarreled and "made up" in play.

And so, for the sake of old friendship, I venture to tell you the truth,— As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I might in our earlier youth.

Five summers ago, when you wooed her, you stood on the selfsame plane, Face to face, heart to heart, never dreaming your souls should be parted again.

She loved you at that time entirely, in the bloom, of her life's early May; And it is not her fault, I repeat it, that she does not love you to-day.

Nature never stands still, nor souls either: they ever go up or go down; And hers has been steadily soaring—but how has it been with your own?

She has struggled and yearned and aspired, grown purer and wiser each year: The stars are not farther above you in yon luminous atmosphere!

For she whom you crowned with fresh roses, down yonder, five summers ago, Has learned that the first of our duties to God and ourselves is to grow.

Her eyes they are sweeter and calmer: but their vision is clearer as well; Her voice has a tender cadence, but is pure as a silver bell.

Her face has the look worn by those who with God and his angels have talked: The white robes she wears are less white than the spirits with whom she has walked.

And you? Have you aimed at the highest? Have you, too, aspired and prayed? Have you looked upon evil unsullied? Have you conquered it undismayed?

Have you, too, grown purer and wiser, as the months and the years have rolled on? Did you meet her this morning rejoicing in the triumph of victory won?

Nay, hear me! The truth cannot harm you. When to-day in her presence you stood Was the hand that you gave her as white and clean as that of her womanhood?

Go measure yourself by her standard; look back on the years that have fled: Then ask, if you need, why she tells you that the love of her girlhood is dead.

She cannot look down to her lover: her love, like her soul, aspires; He must stand by her side, or above her, who would kindle its holy fires.

Now farewell! For the sake of old friendship I have ventured to tell you the truth, As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly as I might in our earlier youth.

Julia C. R. Dorr [1825-1913]



A TRAGEDY

Among his books he sits all day To think and read and write; He does not smell the new-mown hay, The roses red and white.

I walk among them all alone, His silly, stupid wife; The world seems tasteless, dead and done— An empty thing is life.

At night his window casts a square Of light upon the lawn; I sometimes walk and watch it there Until the chill of dawn.

I have no brain to understand The books he loves to read; I only have a heart and hand He does not seem to need.

He calls me "Child"—lays on my hair Thin fingers, cold and mild; Oh! God of Love, who answers prayer, I wish I were a child!

And no one sees and no one knows (He least would know or see), That ere Love gathers next year's rose Death will have gathered me.

Edith Nesbit [1858-1924]



LEFT BEHIND

It was the autumn of the year; The strawberry-leaves were red and sere; October's airs were fresh and chill, When, pausing on the windy hill, The hill that overlooks the sea, You talked confidingly to me,— Me whom your keen, artistic sight Has not yet learned to read aright, Since I have veiled my heart from you, And loved you better than you knew.

You told me of your toilsome past; The tardy honors won at last, The trials borne, the conquests gained, The longed-for boon of Fame attained; I knew that every victory But lifted you away from me, That every step of high emprise But left me lowlier in your eyes; I watched the distance as it grew, And loved you better than you knew.

You did not see the bitter trace Of anguish sweep across my face; You did not hear my proud heart beat, Heavy and slow, beneath your feet; You thought of triumphs still unwon, Of glorious deeds as yet undone; And I, the while you talked to me, I watched the gulls float lonesomely, Till lost amid the hungry blue, And loved you better than you knew.

You walk the sunny side of fate; The wise world smiles, and calls you great; The golden fruitage of success Drops at your feet in plenteousness; And you have blessings manifold:— Renown and power and friends and gold,— They build a wall between us twain, Which may not be thrown down again, Alas! for I, the long years through, Have loved you better than you knew.

Your life's proud aim, your art's high truth, Have kept the promise of your youth; And while you won the crown, which now Breaks into bloom upon your brow, My soul cried strongly out to you Across the ocean's yearning blue, While, unremembered and afar, I watched you, as I watch a star Through darkness struggling into view, And loved you better than you knew.

I used to dream in all these years Of patient faith and silent tears, That Love's strong hand would put aside The barriers of place and pride, Would reach the pathless darkness through, And draw me softly up to you; But that is past. If you should stray Beside my grave, some future day, Perchance the violets o'er my dust Will half betray their buried trust, And say, their blue eyes full of dew, "She loved you better than you knew."

Elizabeth Akers [1832-1911]



THE FORSAKEN MERMAN

Come, dear children, let us away; Down and away below! Now my brothers call from the bay, Now the great winds shoreward blow, Now the salt tides seaward flow; Now the wild white horses play, Champ and chafe and toss in the spray. Children dear, let us away! This way, this way!

Call her once before you go.— Call once yet! In a voice that she will know: "Margaret! Margaret!" Children's voices should be dear (Call once more) to a mother's ear; Children's voices, wild with pain,— Surely she will come again! Call her once and come away; This way, this way! "Mother dear, we cannot stay! The wild white horses foam and fret." Margaret! Margaret!

Come, dear children, come away down; Call no more! One last look at the white-walled town, And the little gray church on the windy shore; Then come down! She will not come, though you call all day; Come away, come away!

Children dear, was it yesterday We heard the sweet bells over the bay? In the caverns where we lay, Through the surf and through the swell, The far-off sound of a silver bell? Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep, Where the winds are all asleep; Where the spent lights quiver and gleam, Where the salt weed sways in the stream, Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round, Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground; Where the sea-snakes coil and twine, Dry their mail and bask in the brine; Where great whales come sailing by, Sail and sail, with unshut eye, Round the world for ever and aye? When did music come this way? Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, was it yesterday (Call yet once) that she went away? Once she sate with you and me, On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea, And the youngest sate on her knee. She combed its bright hair, and she tended it well, When down swung the sound of the far-off bell. She sighed, she looked up through the clear green sea; She said: "I must go, for my kinsfolk pray In the little gray church on the shore to-day. 'Twill he Easter-time in the world,—ah me! And I lose my poor soul, Merman, here with thee." I said: "Go up, dear heart, through the waves: Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves!" She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay. Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, were we long alone? "The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan; Long prayers," I said, "in the world they say; Come!" I said, and we rose through the surf in the bay. We went up the beach, by the sandy down Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-walled town, Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still, To the little gray church on the windy hill. From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers, But we stood without in the cold blowing airs. We climbed on the graves, on the stones worn with rains, And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes. She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear: "Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here! Dear heart," I said, "we are long alone; The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan." But, ah, she gave me never a look, For her eyes were sealed to the holy book! Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door. Come away, children, call no more! Come away, come down, call no more!

Down, down, down! Down to the depths of the sea! She sits at her wheel in the humming town, Singing most joyfully. Hark what she sings: "O joy, O joy, From the humming street, and the child with its toy! From the priest, and the bell, and the holy well; From the wheel where I spun, And the blessed light of the sun!" And so she sings her fill, Singing most joyfully, Till the spindle drops from her hand, And the whizzing wheel stands still. She steals to the window, and looks at the sand, And over the sand at the sea; And her eyes are set in a stare, And anon there breaks a sigh, And anon there drops a tear, From a sorrow-clouded eye, And a heart sorrow-laden, A long, long sigh; For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden, And the gleam of her golden hair.

Come away, away, children; Come, children, come down! The hoarse wind blows colder; Lights shine in the town. She will start from her slumber When gusts shake the door; She will hear the winds howling, Will hear the waves roar. We shall see, while above us The waves roar and whirl, A ceiling of amber, A pavement of pearl. Singing: "Here came a mortal, But faithless was she! And alone dwell for ever The kings of the sea."

But, children, at midnight, When soft the winds blow, When clear falls the moonlight, When spring-tides are low; When sweet airs come seaward From heaths starred with broom, And high rocks throw mildly On the blanched sands a gloom; Up the still, glistening beaches, Up the creeks we will hie; Over banks of bright seaweed The ebb-tide leaves dry. We will gaze, from the sand-hills, At the white, sleeping town; At the church on the hillside— And then come back down. Singing: "There dwells a loved one, But cruel is she! She left lonely for ever The kings of the sea."

Matthew Arnold [1822-1888]



THE PORTRAIT

Midnight past! Not a sound of aught Through the silent house, but the wind at his prayers. I sat by the dying fire, and thought Of the dear dead woman up-stairs.

A night of tears! for the gusty rain Had ceased, but the eaves were dripping yet; And the moon looked forth, as though in pain, With her face all white and wet:

Nobody with me, my watch to keep, But the friend of my bosom, the man I love: And grief had sent him fast to sleep In the chamber up above.

Nobody else, in the country place All round, that knew of my loss beside, But the good young Priest with the Raphael-face, Who confessed her when she died.

That good young Priest is of gentle nerve, And my grief had moved him beyond control; For his lip grew white, as I could observe, When he speeded her parting soul.

I sat by the dreary hearth alone: I thought of the pleasant days of yore: I said, "The staff of my life is gone: The woman I loved is no more.

"On her cold dead bosom my portrait lies, Which next to her heart she used to wear— Haunting it o'er with her tender eyes When my own face was not there.

"It is set all round with rubies red, And pearls which a Pen might have kept. For each ruby there my heart hath bled: For each pearl my eyes have wept."

And I said—The thing is precious to me: They will bury her soon in the churchyard clay; It lies on her heart, and lost must be If I do not take it away."

I lighted my lamp at the dying flame, And crept up the stairs that creaked for fright, Till into the chamber of death I came, Where she lay all in white.

The moon shone over her winding-sheet, There stark she lay on her carven bed: Seven burning tapers about her feet, And seven about her head.

As I stretched my hand, I held my breath; I turned as I drew the curtains apart: I dared not look on the face of death: I knew where to find her heart.

I thought at first, as my touch fell there, It had warmed that heart to life, with love; For the thing I touched was warm, I swear, And I could feel it move.

'Twas the hand of a man, that was moving slow O'er the heart of the dead,—from the other side: And at once the sweat broke over my brow: "Who is robbing the corpse?" I cried.

Opposite me by the tapers' light, The friend of my bosom, the man I loved, Stood over the corpse, and all as white, And neither of us moved.

"What do you here, my friend?"...The man Looked first at me, and then at the dead. "There is a portrait here," he began: "There is. It is mine," I said.

Said the friend of my bosom, "Yours, no doubt, The portrait was, till a month ago, When this suffering angel took that out, And placed mine there, I know."

"This woman, she loved me well," said I. "A month ago," said my friend to me: "And in your throat," I groaned, "you lie!" He answered,... "Let us see."

"Enough!" I returned, "let the dead decide: And whosesoever the portrait prove, His shall it be, when the cause is tried, Where Death is arraigned by Love."

We found the portrait there, in its place: We opened it by the tapers' shine: The gems were all unchanged: the face Was—neither his nor mine.

"One nail drives out another, at least! The face of the portrait there," I cried, "Is our friend's, the Raphael-faced young Priest, Who confessed her when she died."

The setting is all of rubies red, And pearls which a Peri might have kept. For each ruby there my heart hath bled: For each pearl my eyes have wept.

Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton [1831-1891]



THE ROSE AND THORN

She's loveliest of the festal throng In delicate form and Grecian face,— A beautiful, incarnate song, A marvel of harmonious grace; And yet I know the truth I speak: From those gay groups she stands apart, A rose upon her tender cheek, A thorn within her heart.

Though bright her eyes' bewildering gleams, Fair tremulous lips and shining hair, A something born of mournful dreams Breathes round her sad enchanted air; No blithesome thoughts at hide and seek From out her dimples smiling start; If still the rose be on her cheek, A thorn is in her heart.

Young lover, tossed 'twixt hope and fear, Your whispered vow and yearning eyes Yon marble Clytie pillared near Could move as soon to soft replies: Or, if she thrill at words you speak, Love's memory prompts the sudden start; The rose has paled upon her cheek, The thorn has pierced her heart.

Paul Hamilton Hayne [1830-1886]



TO HER—UNSPOKEN

Go to him, ah, go to him, and lift your eyes aglow to him; Fear not royally to give whatever he may claim; All your spirit's treasury scruple not to show to him. He is noble; meet him with a pride too high for shame.

Say to him, ah, say to him, that soul and body sway to him; Cast away the cowardice that counsels you to flight, Lest you turn at last to find that you have lost the way to him, Lest you stretch your arms in vain across a starless night.

Be to him, ah, be to him, the key that sets joy free to him, Teach him all the tenderness that only love can know, And if ever there should come a memory of me to him, Bid him judge me gently for the sake of long ago.

Amelia Josephine Burr [1878-



A LIGHT WOMAN

So far as our story approaches the end, Which do you pity the most of us three?— My friend, or the mistress of my friend With her wanton eyes, or me?

My friend was already too good to lose, And seemed in the way of improvement yet, When she crossed his path with her hunting-noose, And over him drew her net.

When I saw him tangled in her toils, A shame, said I, if she adds just him To her nine-and-ninety other spoils, The hundredth for a whim!

And before my friend be wholly hers, How easy to prove to him, I said, An eagle's the game her pride prefers, Though she snaps at a wren instead!

So, I gave her eyes my own eyes to take, My hand sought hers as in earnest need, And round she turned for my noble sake, And gave me herself indeed.

The eagle am I, with my fame in the world, The wren is he, with his maiden face. —You look away and your lip is curled? Patience, a moment's space!

For see, my friend goes shaking and white; He eyes me as the basilisk: I have turned, it appears, his day to night, Eclipsing his sun's disk.

And I did it, he thinks, as a very thief: "Though I love her—that, he comprehends— One should master one's passions, (love, in chief) And be loyal to one's friends!"

And she,—she lies in my hand as tame As a pear late basking over a wall; Just a touch to try and off it came; 'Tis mine,—can I let it fall?

With no mind to eat it, that's the worst! Were it thrown in the road, would the case assist? 'Twas quenching a dozen blue-flies' thirst When I gave its stalk a twist.

And I,—what I seem to my friend, you see: What I soon shall seem to his love, you guess: What I seem to myself, do you ask of me? No hero I confess.

'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls, And matter enough to save one's own: Yet think of my friend, and the burning coals He played with for bits of stone!

One likes to show the truth for the truth; That the woman was light is very true: But suppose she says,—Never mind that youth! What wrong have I done to you?

Well, anyhow, here the story stays, So far at least as I understand; And, Robert Browning, you writer of plays, Here's a subject made to your hand!

Robert Browning [1812-1889]



FROM THE TURKISH

The chain I gave was fair to view, The lute I added sweet in sound, The heart that offered both was true, And ill deserved the fate it found.

These gifts were charmed by secret spell Thy truth in absence to divine; And they have done their duty well, Alas! they could not teach thee thine.

That chain was firm in every link, But not to bear a stranger's touch; That lute was sweet—till thou couldst think In other hands its notes were such.

Let him, who from thy neck unbound The chain which shivered in his grasp, Who saw that lute refuse to sound, Restring the chords, renew the clasp.

When thou wert changed, they altered too; The chain is broke, the music mute: 'Tis past—to them and thee adieu— False heart, frail chain, and silent lute.

George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]



A SUMMER WOOING

The wind went wooing the rose, For the rose was fair. How the rough wind won her, who knows? But he left her there. Far away from her grave he blows: Does the free wind care?

Louise Chandler Moulton [1835-1908]



BUTTERFLIES

At sixteen years she knew no care; How could she, sweet and pure as light? And there pursued her everywhere Butterflies all white.

A lover looked. She dropped her eyes That glowed like pansies wet with dew; And lo, there came from out the skies Butterflies all blue.

Before she guessed her heart was gone; The tale of love was swiftly told; And all about her wheeled and shone Butterflies all gold.

Then he forsook her one sad morn; She wept and sobbed, "Oh, love, come back!" There only came to her forlorn Butterflies all black.

John Davidson [1857-1909]



UNSEEN SPIRITS

The shadows lay along Broadway, 'Twas near the twilight-tide, And slowly there a lady fair Was walking in her pride. Alone walked she; but, viewlessly, Walked spirits at her side.

Peace charmed the street beneath her feet, And Honor charmed the air; And all astir looked kind on her, And called her good as fair,— For all God ever gave to her She kept with chary care.

She kept with care her beauties rare From lovers warm and true, For her heart was cold to all but gold, And the rich came not to woo— But honored well are charms to sell If priests the selling do.

Now walking there was one more fair— A slight girl, lily-pale; And she had unseen company To make the spirit quail: 'Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn, And nothing could avail.

No mercy now can clear her brow For this world's peace to pray; For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air, Her woman's heart gave way!— But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven By man is cursed alway!

Nathaniel Parker Willis [1806-1867]



"GRANDMITHER, THINK NOT I FORGET"

Grandmither, think not I forget, when I come back to town, An' wander the old ways again, an' tread them up and down. I never smell the clover bloom, nor see the swallows pass, Without I mind how good ye were unto a little lass. I never hear the winter rain a-pelting all night through, Without I think and mind me of how cold it falls on you. And if I come not often to your bed beneath the thyme, Mayhap 'tis that I'd change wi' ye, and gie my bed for thine, Would like to sleep in thine.

I never hear the summer winds among the roses blow, Without I wonder why it was ye loved the lassie so. Ye gave me cakes and lollipops and pretty toys a store,— I never thought I should come back and ask ye now for more. Grandmither, gie me your still, white hands, that lie upon your breast, For mine do beat the dark all night, and never find me rest; They grope among the shadows, an' they beat the cold black air, They go seekin' in the darkness, an' they never find him there, They never find him there.

Grandmither, gie me your sightless eyes, that I may never see His own a-burnin' full o' love that must not shine for me. Grandmither, gie me your peaceful lips, white as the kirkyard snow, For mine be tremblin' wi' the wish that he must never know. Grandmither, gie me your clay-stopped ears, that I may never hear My lad a-singin' in the night when I am sick wi' fear; A-singin' when the moonlight over a' the land is white— Ah, God! I'll up an' go to him a-singin' in the night, A-callin' in the night.

Grandmither, gie me your clay-cold heart that has forgot to ache, For mine be fire within my breast and yet it cannot break. Wi' every beat it's callin' for things that must not be,— An' can ye not let me creep in an' rest awhile by ye? A little lass afeard o' dark slept by ye years agone— Ah, she has found what night can hold 'twixt sundown an' the dawn! So when I plant the rose an' rue above your grave for ye, Ye'll know it's under rue an' rose that I would like to be, That I would like to be.

Willa Sibert Cather [1875-



LITTLE WILD BABY

Through the fierce fever I nursed him, and then he said I was the woman—I!—that he would wed; He sent a boat with men for his own white priest, And he gave my father horses, and made a feast. I am his wife: if he has forgotten me, I will not live for scorning eyes to see. (Little wild baby, that knowest not where thou art going, Lie still! lie still! Thy mother will do the rowing.)

Three moons ago—it was but three moons ago— He took his gun, and started across the snow; For the river was frozen, the river that still goes down Every day, as I watch it, to find the town; The town whose name I caught from his sleeping lips, A place of many people and many ships. (Little wild baby, that knowest not where thou art going, Lie still! lie still! Thy mother will do the rowing.)

I to that town am going, to search the place, With his little white son in my arms, till I see his face. Only once shall I need to look in his eyes, To see if his soul, as I knew it, lives or dies. If it lives, we live, and if it is dead, we die, And the soul of my baby will never ask me why. (Little wild baby, that knowest not where thou art going, Lie still! lie still! Thy mother will do the rowing.)

I have asked about the river: one answered me, That after the town it goes to find the sea; That great waves, able to break the stoutest bark, Are there, and the sea is very deep and dark. If he is happy without me, so best, so best; I will take his baby and go away to my rest. (Little wild baby, that knowest not where thou art going, Lie still! lie still! Thy mother will do the rowing. The river flows swiftly, the sea is dark and deep: Little wild baby, lie still! Lie still and sleep.)

Margaret Thomson Janvier [1845-1913]



A CRADLE SONG

Come little babe, come silly soul, Thy father's shame, thy mother's grief, Born as I doubt to all our dole, And to thyself unhappy chief: Sing lullaby, and lap it warm, Poor soul that thinks no creature harm.

Thou little think'st and less dost know The cause of this thy mother's moan; Thou want'st the wit to wail her woe, And I myself am all alone: Why dost thou weep? why dost thou wail? And know'st not yet what thou dost ail.

Come, little wretch—ah, silly heart! Mine only joy, what can I more? If there be any wrong thy smart, That may the destinies implore: 'Twas I, I say, against my will, I wail the time, but be thou still.

And dost thou smile? O, thy sweet face! Would God Himself He might thee see!— No doubt thou wouldst soon purchase grace, I know right well, for thee and me: But come to mother, babe, and play, For father false is fled away.

Sweet boy, if it by fortune chance Thy father home again to send, If death do strike me with his lance, Yet may'st thou me to him commend: If any ask thy mother's name, Tell how by love she purchased blame.

Then will his gentle heart soon yield: I know him of a noble mind: Although a lion in the field, A lamb in town thou shalt him find: Ask blessing, babe, be not afraid, His sugared words hath me betrayed.

Then may'st thou joy and be right glad; Although in woe I seem to moan, Thy father is no rascal lad, A noble youth of blood and bone: His glancing looks, if he once smile, Right honest women may beguile.

Come, little boy, and rock asleep; Sing lullaby and be thou still; I, that can do naught else but weep, Will sit by thee and wail my fill: God bless my babe, and lullaby From this thy father's quality.

Nicholas Breton [1545?-1626?]



LADY ANNE BOTHWELL'S LAMENT

Balow, my babe, lie still and sleep! It grieves me sore to see thee weep. Wouldst thou be quiet I'se be glad, Thy mourning makes my sorrow sad: Balow my boy, thy mother's joy, Thy father breeds me great annoy— Balow, la-low!

When he began to court my love, And with his sugared words me move, His feignings false and flattering cheer To me that time did not appear: But now I see most cruelly He cares ne for my babe nor me— Balow, la-low!

Lie still, my darling, sleep awhile, And when thou wak'st thou'll sweetly smile: But smile not as thy father did, To cozen maids: nay, God forbid! But yet I fear thou wilt go near Thy father's heart and face to bear— Balow, la-low!

I cannot choose but ever will Be loving to thy father still; Where'er he go, where'er he ride, My love with him doth still abide; In weal or woe, where'er he go, My heart shall ne'er depart him fro— Balow, la-low!

But do not, do not, pretty mine, To feignings false thy heart incline! Be loyal to thy lover true, And never change her for a new: If good or fair, of her have care For women's banning's wondrous sair— Balow, la-low!

Bairn, by thy face I will beware; Like Sirens' words, I'll come not near; My babe and I together will live; He'll comfort me when cares do grieve. My babe and I right soft will lie, And ne'er respect man's cruelty— Balow, la-low!

Farewell, farewell, the falsest youth That ever kissed a woman's mouth! I wish all maids be warned by me Never to trust man's courtesy; For if we do but chance to bow, They'll use us then they care not how— Balow, la-low!

Unknown



A WOMAN'S LOVE

A sentinel angel, sitting high in glory, Heard this shrill wail ring out from Purgatory: "Have mercy, mighty angel, hear my story!

"I loved,—and, blind with passionate love, I fell. Love brought me down to death, and death to Hell; For God is just, and death for sin is well.

"I do not rage against His high decree, Nor for myself do ask that grace shall be; But for my love on earth who mourns for me.

"Great Spirit! Let me see my love again And comfort him one hour, and I were fain To pay a thousand years of fire and pain."

Then said the pitying angel, "Nay, repent That wild vow! Look, the dial-finger's bent Down to the last hour of thy punishment!"

But still she wailed, "I pray thee, let me go! I cannot rise to peace and leave him so. O, let me soothe him in his bitter woe!"

The brazen gates ground sullenly ajar, And upwards, joyous, like a rising star, She rose and vanished in the ether far.

But soon adown the dying sunset sailing, And like a wounded bird her pinions trailing, She fluttered back, with broken-hearted wailing,

She sobbed, "I found him by the summer sea Reclined, his head upon a maiden's knee,— She curled his hair and kissed him. Woe is me!"

She wept, "Now let my punishment begin! I have been fond and foolish. Let me in To expiate my sorrow and my sin."

The angel answered, "Nay, sad soul, go higher! To be deceived in your true heart's desire Was bitterer than a thousand years of fire!"

John Hay [1838-1905]



A TRAGEDY

She was only a woman, famished for loving, Mad with devotion, and such slight things; And he was a very great musician, And used to finger his fiddle-strings.

Her heart's sweet gamut is cracking and breaking For a look, for a touch,—for such slight things; But he's such a very great musician Grimacing and fingering his fiddle-strings.

Theophile Marzials [1850-



"MOTHER, I CANNOT MIND MY WHEEL"

Mother, I cannot mind my wheel; My fingers ache, my lips are dry: O, if you felt the pain I feel! But O, who ever felt as I?

No longer could I doubt him true— All other men may use deceit; He always said my eyes were blue, And often swore my lips were sweet.

Walter Savage Lander [1775-1864]



AIRLY BEACON

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon; O the pleasant sight to see Shires and towns from Airly Beacon, While my love climbed up to me!

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon; O the happy hours we lay Deep in fern on Airly Beacon, Courting through the summer's day!

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon; O the weary haunt for me, All alone on Airly Beacon, With his baby on my knee!

Charles Kingsley [1819-1875]



A SEA CHILD

The lover of child Marjory Had one white hour of life brim full; Now the old nurse, the rocking sea, Hath him to lull.

The daughter of child Marjory Hath in her veins, to beat and run, The glad indomitable sea, The strong white sun.

Bliss Carmen [1861-1929]



FROM THE HARBOR HILL

"Is it a sail?" she asked. "No," I said. "Only a white sea-gull with its pinions spread."

"Is it a spar?" she asked. "No," said I. "Only the slender light-house tower against the sky."

"Flutters a pennant there?" "No," I said. "Only a shred of cloud in the sunset red."

"Surely a hull, a hull!" "Where?" I cried. "Only a rock half-bared by the ebbing tide."

"Wait you a ship?" I asked. "Aye!" quoth she. "The Harbor Belle; her mate comes home to marry me.

"Surely the good ship hath Met no harm?" Was it the west wind wailed or the babe on her arm?

"The Harbor Belle!" she urged. Naught said I.— For I knew o'er the grave o' the Harbor Belle the sea-gulls fly.

Gustav Kobbe [1857-1918]



ALLAN WATER

On the banks of Allan Water, When the sweet spring-time did fall, Was the miller's lovely daughter, Fairest of them all.

For his bride a soldier sought her, And a winning tongue had he, On the banks of Allan Water, None so gay as she.

On the banks of Allan Water, When brown autumn spread his store, There I saw the miller's daughter, But she smiled no more.

For the summer grief had brought her, And the soldier false was he, On the banks of Allan Water, None so sad as she.

On the banks of Allan Water, When the winter snow fell fast, Still was seen the miller's daughter, Chilling blew the blast.

But the miller's lovely daughter, Both from cold and care was free; On the banks of Allan Water, There a corse lay she.

Matthew Gregory Lewis [1775-1818]



FORSAKEN

O waly waly up the bank, And waly waly down the brae, And waly waly yon burn-side Where I and my Love wont to gae! I leaned my back unto an aik, I thought it was a trusty tree; But first it bowed, and syne it brak, Sae my true Love did lichtly me.

O waly waly, but love be bonny A little while when it is new; But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld And fades awa' like morning dew. O wherefore should I busk my head? Or wherefore should I kame my hair? For my true Love has me forsook, And says he'll never loe me mair.

Now Arthur-seat sall be my bed; The sheets shall ne'er be pressed by me: Saint Anton's well sall be my drink, Since my true Love has forsaken me. Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw And shake the green leaves aff the tree? O gentle Death, when wilt thou come? For of my life I am wearie.

'Tis not the frost, that freezes fell, Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie; 'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, But my Love's heart grown cauld to me. When we cam in by Glasgow town We were a comely sight to see; My Love was clad in black velvet. And I mysel in cramasie.

But had I wist, before I kissed, That love had been sae ill to win; I had locked my heart in a case of gowd And pinned it with a siller pin. And, O! if my young babe were born, And sat upon the nurse's knee, And I mysel were dead and gane, And the green grass growing over me!