II. POEMS OF LOVE (part 2 of 2)

II. POEMS OF LOVE (part 2 of 2)

All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat, Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay; Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet; But I was desolate and sick of an old passion, When I awoke and found the dawn was gray: I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind, Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng, Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind; But I was desolate and sick of an old passion, Yea, all the time, because the dance was long: I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

I cried for madder music and for stronger wine, But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire, Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine; And I am desolate and sick of an old passion, Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire: I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

Ernest Dowson [1867-1900]

QUID NON SPEREMUS, AMANTES?

Why is there in the least touch of her hands More grace than other women's lips bestow, If love is but a slave to fleshly bands Of flesh to flesh, wherever love may go?

Why choose vain grief and heavy-hearted hours For her lost voice, and dear remembered hair, If love may cull his honey from all flowers, And girls grow thick as violets, everywhere?

Nay! She is gone, and all things fall apart; Or she is cold, and vainly have we prayed; And broken is the summer's splendid heart, And hope within a deep, dark grave is laid.

As man aspires and falls, yet a soul springs Out of his agony of flesh at last, So love that flesh enthralls, shall rise on wings Soul-centered, when the rule of flesh is past.

Then, most High Love, or wreathed with myrtle sprays, Or crownless and forlorn, nor less a star, Thee may I serve and follow all my days, Whose thorns are sweet as never roses are!

Ernest Dowson [1867-1900]

"SO SWEET LOVE SEEMED"

So sweet love seemed that April morn, When first we kissed beside the thorn, So strangely sweet, it was not strange We thought that love could never change.

But I can tell - let truth be told - That love will change in growing old; Though day by day is naught to see, So delicate his motions be.

And in the end 'twill come to pass Quite to forget what once he was, Nor even in fancy to recall The pleasure that was all in all.

His little spring, that sweet we found, So deep in summer floods is drowned, I wonder, bathed in joy complete, How love so young could be so sweet.

Robert Bridges [1844-1930]

AN OLD TUNE After Gerard De Nerval

There is an air for which I would disown Mozart's, Rossini's, Weber's melodies, - A sweet sad air that languishes and sighs, And keeps its secret charm for me alone.

Whene'er I hear that music vague and old, Two hundred years are mist that rolls away; The thirteenth Louis reigns, and I behold A green land golden in the dying day.

An old red castle, strong with stony towers, And windows gay with many-colored glass; Wide plains, and rivers flowing among flowers, That bathe the castle basement as they pass.

In antique weed, with dark eyes and gold hair, A lady looks forth from her window high; It may be that I knew and found her fair, In some forgotten life, long time gone by.

Andrew Lang [1844-1912]

REFUGE

Set your face to the sea, fond lover, - Cold in darkness the sea-winds blow! Waves and clouds and the night will cover All your passion and all your woe: Sobbing waves, and the death within them, Sweet as the lips that once you pressed - Pray that your hopeless heart may win them! Pray that your weary life may rest!

Set your face to the stars, fond lover, - Calm, and silent, and bright, and true! - They will pity you, they will hover Softly over the deep for you. Winds of heaven will sigh your dirges, Tears of heaven for you be spent, And sweet for you will the murmuring surges Pour the wail of their low lament.

Set your face to the lonely spaces, Vast and gaunt, of the midnight sky! There, with the drifting cloud, your place is, There with the griefs that cannot die. Love is a mocking fiend's derision, Peace a phantom, and faith a snare! Make the hope of your heart a vision - Look to heaven, and find it there!

William Winter [1836-

MIDSUMMER

After the May time and after the June time Rare with blossoms and perfume sweet, Cometh the round world's royal noon time, The red midsummer of blazing heat, When the sun, like an eye that never closes, Bends on the earth its fervid gaze, And the winds are still, and the crimson roses Droop and wither and die in its rays.

Unto my heart has come this season, O, my lady, my worshiped one, When, over the stars of Pride and Reason, Sails Love's cloudless, noonday sun. Like a great red ball in my bosom burning With fires that nothing can quench or tame, It glows till my heart itself seems turning Into a liquid lake of flame.

The hopes half shy and the sighs all tender, The dreams and fears of an earlier day, Under the noontide's royal splendor, Droop like roses, and wither away. From the hills of Doubt no winds are blowing, From the isles of Pain no breeze is sent, - Only the sun in a white heat glowing Over an ocean of great content.

Sink, O my soul, in this golden glory! Die, O my heart, in thy rapture-swoon! For the Autumn must come with its mournful story. And Love's midsummer will fade too soon.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox [1850-1919]

ASHES OF ROSES

Soft on the sunset sky Bright daylight closes, Leaving when light doth die, Pale hues that mingling lie - Ashes of roses.

When love's warm sun is set, Love's brightness closes; Eyes with hot tears are wet, In hearts there linger yet Ashes of roses.

Elaine Goodale Eastman [1863-

SYMPATHY

The color gladdens all your heart; You call it Heaven, dear, but I - Now Hope and I are far apart - Call it the sky.

I know that Nature's tears have wet The world with sympathy; but you, Who know not any sorrow yet, Call it the dew.

Althea Gyles [ ? ]

THE LOOK

Strephon kissed me in the spring, Robin in the fall, But Colin only looked at me And never kissed at all.

Strephon's kiss was lost in jest, Robin's lost in play, But the kiss in Colin's eyes Haunts me night and day.

Sara Teasdale [1884-1933]

"WHEN MY BELOVED SLEEPING LIES"

When my beloved sleeping lies I cannot look at him for tears, Such mournful peace is on his eyes.

A look of lonely death he wears, And graven very calm and deep Lie all the sorrows of old years.

He is so passionless in sleep, With all his strength relaxed to rest; I cannot see him and not weep.

For weakness life has not confessed And shadowed scars of old mistakes, I take his head upon my breast, And hold my dearest till he wakes.

Irene Rutherford McLeod [1891-

LOVE AND LIFE

"Give me a fillet, Love," quoth I, "To bind my Sweeting's heart to me, So ne'er a chance of earth or sky Shall part us ruthlessly: A fillet, Love, but not to chafe My Sweeting's soul, to cause her pain; But just to bind her close and safe Through snow and blossom and sun and rain: A fillet, boy!" Love said, "Here's joy."

"Give me a fetter, Life," quoth I, "To bind to mine my Sweeting's heart, So Death himself must fail to pry With Time the two apart: A fetter, Life, that each shall wear, Whose precious bondage each shall know. I prithee, Life, no more forbear - Why dost thou wait and falter so? Haste, Life - be brief!" Said Life: - "Here's grief."

Julie Mathilde Lippman [1864-

LOVE'S PRISONER

Sweet love has twined his fingers in my hair, And laid his hand across my wondering eyes. I cannot move save in the narrow space Of his strong arms' embrace, Nor see but only in my own heart where His image lies. How can I tell, Emprisoned so well, If in the outer world be sunset or sunrise? Sweet Love has laid his hand across my eyes.

Sweet Love has loosed his fingers from my hair, His lifted hand has left my eyelids wet. I cannot move save to pursue his fleet And unreturning feet, Nor see but in my ruined heart, and there His face lies yet. How should I know, Distraught and blinded so, If in the outer world be sunrise or sunset? Sweet Love has freed my eyes, but they are wet.

Mariana Griswold Van Rensselaer [1851-1934]

ROSIES

There's a rosie-show in Derry, An' a rosie-show in Down; An' 'tis like there's wan, I'm thinkin', 'll be held in Randalstown; But if I had the choosin' Av a rosie-prize the day, 'Twould be a pink wee rosie Like he plucked whin rakin' hay: Yon pink wee rosie in my hair - He fixed it troth - an' kissed it there! White gulls wor wheelin' roun' the sky Down by - down by.

Ay, there's rosies sure in Derry, An' there's famous wans in Down; Och there's rosies all a-hawkin' Through the heart av London town! But if I had the liftin' Or the buyin' av a few, I'd choose jist pink wee rosies That's all drenchin' wid the dew - Yon pink wee rosies wid the tears! Och wet, wet tears! - ay, troth, 'tis years Since we kep' rakin' in the hay Thon day - thon day!

Agnes I. Hanrahan [18

AT THE COMEDY

Last night, in snowy gown and glove, I saw you watch the play Where each mock hero won his love In the old unlifelike way.

(And, oh, were life their little scene Where love so smoothly ran, How different, Dear, this world had been Since this old world began!)

For you, who saw them gayly win Both hand and heart away, Knew well where dwelt the mockery in That foolish little play.

("If love were all - if love were all," The viols sobbed and cried, "Then love were best whate'er befall!" Low, low, the flutes replied.)

And you, last night, did you forget, So far from me, so near? For watching there your eyes were wet With just an idle tear!

(And down the great dark curtain fell Upon their foolish play: But you and I knew - Oh, too well! - Life went another way!)

Arthur Stringer [1874-

"SOMETIME IT MAY BE"

Sometime it may be you and I In that deserted yard shall lie Where memories fade away; Caring no more for our old dreams, Busy with new and alien themes, The saints and sages say.

But let our graves be side by side, So passers-by at even-tide May pause a moment's space: "Ah, they were lovers who lie here! Else why these low graves laid so near, In this forgotten place?"

Arthur Colton [1868-

"I HEARD A SOLDIER"

I heard a soldier sing some trifle Out in the sun-dried veldt alone: He lay and cleaned his grimy rifle Idly, behind a stone.

"If after death, love, comes a waking, And in their camp so dark and still The men of dust hear bugles, breaking Their halt upon the hill.

"To me the slow and silver pealing That then the last high trumpet pours Shall softer than the dawn come stealing, For, with its call, comes yours!"

What grief of love had he to stifle, Basking so idly by his stone, That grimy soldier with his rifle Out in the veldt, alone?

Herbert Trench [1865-1923]

THE LAST MEMORY

When I am old, and think of the old days, And warm my hands before a little blaze, Having forgotten love, hope, fear, desire, I shall see, smiling out of the pale fire, One face, mysterious and exquisite; And I shall gaze, and ponder over it, Wondering, was it Leonardo wrought That stealthy ardency, where passionate thought Burns inward, a revealing flame, and glows To the last ecstasy, which is repose? Was it Bronzino, those Borghese eyes? And, musing thus among my memories, O unforgotten! you will come to seem, As pictures do, remembered, some old dream. And I shall think of you as something strange, And beautiful, and full of helpless change, Which I beheld and carried in my heart; But you, I loved, will have become a part Of the eternal mystery, and love Like a dim pain; and I shall bend above My little fire, and shiver, being cold, When you are no more young, and I am old.

Arthur Symons [1865-

"DOWN BY THE SALLEY GARDENS"

Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet; She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet. She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree; But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree. In a field by the river my love and I did stand, And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand. She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs; But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

William Butler Yeats [1865-

ASHES OF LIFE

Love has gone and left me, and the days are all alike. Eat I must, and sleep I will - and would that night were here! But ah, to lie awake and hear the slow hours strike! Would that it were day again, with twilight near!

Love has gone and left me, and I don't know what to do; This or that or what you will is all the same to me; But all the things that I begin I leave before I'm through - There's little use in anything as far as I can see.

Love has gone and left me, and the neighbors knock and borrow, And life goes on forever like the gnawing of a mouse. And to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow There's this little street and this little house.

Edna St. Vincent Millay [1892-

A FAREWELL

Thou wilt not look on me? Ah, well! the world is wide; The rivers still are rolling free, Song and the sword abide; And who sets forth to sail the sea Shall follow with the tide.

Thrall of my darkling day, I vassalage fulfil: Seeking the myrtle and the bay, (They thrive when hearts are chill!) The straitness of the narrowing way, The house where all is still.

Alice Brown [1857-

THE PARTED LOVERS

SONG From "Twelfth Night"

O mistress mine, where are you roaming? O, stay and hear; your true Love's coming, That can sing both high and low: Trip no further, pretty Sweeting; Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man's son doth know.

What is love? 'tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter; What's to come is still unsure: In delay there lies no plenty: Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty, Youth's a stuff will not endure.

William Shakespeare [1564-1616]

"GO, LOVELY ROSE"

Go, lovely Rose - Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung In deserts, where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired: Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired.

Then die - that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee; How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair!

Edmund Waller [1606-1687]

TO THE ROSE: A SONG

Go, happy Rose, and, interwove With other flowers, bind my love. Tell her, too, she must not be Longer flowing, longer free, That so oft fettered me.

Say, if she's fretful, I have bands Of pearl and gold to bind her hands; Tell her, if she struggle still, I have myrtle rods at will For to tame, though not to kill.

Take thou my blessing thus, and go And tell her this, - but do not so! - Lest a handsome anger fly Like a lightning from her eye, And burn thee up, as well as I!

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

MEMORY From "Britannia's Pastorals"

Marina's gone, and now sit I, As Philomela (on a thorn, Turned out of nature's livery), Mirthless, alone, and all forlorn: Only she sings not, while my sorrows can Breathe forth such notes as fit a dying swan.

So shuts the marigold her leaves At the departure of the sun; So from the honeysuckle sheaves The bee goes when the day is done; So sits the turtle when she is but one, And so all woe, as I since she is gone.

To some few birds, kind Nature hath Made all the summer as one day: Which once enjoyed, cold winter's wrath As night, they sleeping pass away. Those happy creatures are, that know not yet The pain to be deprived or to forget.

I oft have heard men say there be Some that with confidence profess The helpful Art of Memory: But could they teach Forgetfulness, I'd learn; and try what further art could do To make me love her and forget her too.

Sad melancholy, that persuades Men from themselves, to think they be Headless, or other bodies' shades, Hath long and bootless dwelt with me; For could I think she some idea were, I still might love, forget, and have her here.

But such she is not: nor would I, For twice as many torments more, As her bereaved company Hath brought to those I felt before, For then no future time might hap to know That she deserved; or I did love her so.

Ye hours, then, but as minutes be! (Though so I shall be sooner old) Till I those lovely graces see, Which, but in her, can none behold; Then be an age! that we may never try More grief in parting, but grow old and die.

William Browne [1591-1643?]

TO LUCASTA, GOING TO THE WARS

Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind, That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such As thou too shalt adore; I could not love thee, Dear, so much, Loved I not Honor more.

Richard Lovelace [1618-1658]

TO LUCASTA, GOING BEYOND THE SEAS

If to be absent were to be Away from thee; Or that when I am gone You or I were alone; Then, my Lucasta, might I crave Pity from blustering wind or swallowing wave.

But I'll not sigh one blast or gale To swell my sail, Or pay a tear to 'suage The foaming blue god's rage; For whether he will let me pass Or no, I'm still as happy as I was.

Though seas and land be twixt us both, Our faith and troth, Like separated souls, All time and space controls: Above the highest sphere we meet Unseen, unknown; and greet as Angels greet.

So then we do anticipate Our after-fate, And are alive in the skies, If thus our lips and eyes Can speak like spirits unconfined In Heaven, their earthy bodies left behind.

Richard Lovelace [1618-1658]

SONG TO A FAIR YOUNG LADY, GOING OUT OF THE TOWN IN THE SPRING

Ask not the cause why sullen Spring So long delays her flowers to bear; Why warbling birds forget to sing, And winter storms invert the year: Chloris is gone; and fate provides To make it Spring where she resides.

Chloris is gone, the cruel fair; She cast not back a pitying eye: But left her lover in despair To sigh, to languish, and to die: Ah! how can those fair eyes endure To give the wounds they will not cure?

Great God of Love, why hast thou made A face that can all hearts command, That all religions can invade, And change the laws of every land? Where thou hadst placed such power before, Thou shouldst have made her mercy more.

When Chloris to the temple comes, Adoring crowds before her fall; She can restore the dead from tombs And every life but mine recall, I only am by Love designed To be the victim for mankind.

John Dryden [1631-1700]

SONG Written At Sea, In The First Dutch War (1665), The Night Before An Engagement

To all you ladies now at land We men at sea indite; But first would have you understand How hard it is to write: The Muses now, and Neptune too, We must implore to write to you - With a fa, la, la, la, la.

For though the Muses should prove kind, And fill our empty brain, Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind To wave the azure main, Our paper, pen, and ink, and we, Roll up and down our ships at sea - With a fa, la, la, la, la.

Then if we write not by each post, Think not we are unkind; Nor yet conclude our ships are lost By Dutchmen or by wind: Our tears we'll send a speedier way, The tide shall bring them twice a day - With a fa, la, la, la, la.

The King with wonder and surprise Will swear the seas grow bold, Because the tides will higher rise Than e'er they did of old: But let him know it is our tears Bring floods of grief to Whitehall stairs - With a fa, la, la, la, la.

Should foggy Opdam chance to know Our sad and dismal story, The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe, And quit their fort at Goree: For what resistance can they find From men who've left their hearts behind? - With a fa, la, la, la, la.

Let wind and weather do its worst, Be you to us but kind; Let Dutchmen vapor, Spaniards curse, No sorrow we shall find: 'Tis then no matter how things go, Or who's our friend, or who's our foe - With a fa, la, la, la, la.

To pass our tedious hours away We throw a merry main, Or else at serious ombre play: But why should we in vain Each other's ruin thus pursue? We were undone when we left you - With a fa, la, la, la, la.

But now our fears tempestuous grow And cast our hopes away; Whilst you, regardless of our woe, Sit careless at a play: Perhaps permit some happier man To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan - With a fa, la, la, la, la.

When any mournful tune you hear, That dies in every note As if it sighed with each man's care For being so remote, Think then how often love we've made To you, when all those tunes were played - With a fa, la, la, la, la.

In justice you cannot refuse To think of our distress, When we for hopes of honor lose Our certain happiness: All those designs are but to prove Ourselves more worthy of your love - With a fa, la, la, la, la.

And now we've told you all our loves, And likewise all our fears, In hopes this declaration moves Some pity for our tears: Let's hear of no inconstancy - We have too much of that at sea - With a fa, la, la, la, la.

Charles Sackville [1638-1706]

SONG

In vain you tell your parting lover, You wish fair winds may waft him over. Alas! what winds can happy prove That bear me far from what I love? Alas! what dangers on the main Can equal those that I sustain From slighted vows, and cold disdain?

Be gentle, and in pity choose To wish the wildest tempests loose: That, thrown again upon the coast, Where first my shipwrecked heart was lost, I may once more repeat my pain; Once more in dying notes complain Of slighted vows and cold disdain.

Matthew Prior [1664-1721]

BLACK-EYED SUSAN

All in the Downs the fleet was moored, The streamers waving in the wind, When black-eyed Susan came aboard; "O! where shall I my true-love find? Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true If my sweet William sails among the crew."

William, who high upon the yard Rocked with the billow to and fro, Soon as her well-known voice he heard He sighed, and cast his eyes below: The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands, And, quick as lightning, on the deck he stands.

So the sweet lark, high poised in air, Shuts close his pinions to his breast If chance his mate's shrill call he hear, And drops at once into her nest: - The noblest captain in the British fleet Might envy William's lip those kisses sweet.

"O Susan, Susan, lovely dear, My vows shall ever true remain; Let me kiss off that falling tear; We only part to meet again. Change as ye list, ye winds; my heart shall be The faithful compass that still points to thee.

"Believe not what the landmen say Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind: They'll tell thee, sailors, when away, In every port a mistress find: Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, For Thou art present wheresoe'er I go.

"If to far India's coast we sail, Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright, Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale, Thy skin is ivory so white. Thus every beauteous object that I view Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue.

"Though battle call me from thy arms Let not my pretty Susan mourn; Though cannons roar, yet, safe from harms, William shall to his Dear return. Love turns aside the balls that round me fly, Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye."

The boatswain gave the dreadful word, The sails their swelling bosom spread, No longer must she stay aboard; They kissed, she sighed, he hung his head. Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land; "Adieu!" she cries; and waved her lily hand.

John Gay [1685-1732]

IRISH MOLLY O

Oh! who is that poor foreigner that lately came to town, And like a ghost that cannot rest still wanders up and down? A poor, unhappy Scottish youth; - if more you wish to know. His heart is breaking all for love of Irish Molly O!

She's modest, mild, and beautiful, the fairest I have known - The primrose of Ireland - all blooming here alone - The primrose of Ireland, for wheresoe'er I go, The only one entices me is Irish Molly O!

When Molly's father heard of it, a solemn oath he swore, That if she'd wed a foreigner he'd never see her more. He sent for young MacDonald and he plainly told him so - "I'll never give to such as you my Irish Molly O!"

MacDonald heard the heavy news, and grievously did say - "Farewell, my lovely Molly, since I'm banished far away, A poor forlorn pilgrim I must wander to and fro, And all for the sake of my Irish Molly O!

"There is a rose in Ireland, I thought it would be mine: But now that she is lost to me, I must for ever pine, Till death shall come to comfort me, for to the grave I'll go, And all for the sake of my Irish Molly O!

"And now that I am dying, this one request I crave, To place a marble tombstone above my humble grave! And on the stone these simple words I'd have engraven so - "'MacDonald lost his life for love of Irish Molly O!'"

Unknown

SONG

At setting day and rising morn, Wi' soul that still shall love thee, I'll ask o' Heaven thy safe return, Wi' a' that can improve thee. I'll visit aft the birken bush Where first thou kindly tauld me Sweet tales o' love, and hid my blush, Whilst round thou didst infauld me.

To a' our haunts I will repair, By greenwood, shaw, or fountain, Or where the summer day I'd share Wi' thee upon yon mountain: There will I tell the trees an' flooers, From thoughts unfeigned an' tender; By vows you're mine, by love is yours A heart that cannot wander.

Allan Ramsay [1686-1758]

LOCHABER NO MORE

Farewell to Lochaber, an' farewell my Jean, Where heartsome wi' thee I hae mony day been; For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more! We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more! These tears that I shed, they are a' for my dear, An' no for the dangers attending on weir, Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore, Maybe to return to Lochaber no more.

Though hurricanes rise, an' rise every wind, They'll ne'er mak' a tempest like that in my mind; Though loudest o' thunders on louder waves roar, That's naething like leaving my love on the shore. To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pained; By ease that's inglorious no fame can be gained; An' beauty an' love's the reward o' the brave, An' I must deserve it before I can crave.

Then glory, my Jeanie, maun plead my excuse; Since honor commands me, how can I refuse? Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee, An' without thy favor I'd better not be, I gae, then, my lass, to win honor an' fame, An' if I should luck to come gloriously hame, I'll bring a heart to thee wi' love running o'er, An' then I'll leave thee an' Lochaber no more.

Allan Ramsay [1686-1758]

WILLIE AND HELEN

"Wharefore sou'd ye talk o' love, Unless it be to pain us? Wharefore sou'd ye talk o' love Whan ye say the sea maun twain us?"

"It's no because my love is light, Nor for your angry deddy; It's a' to buy ye pearlins bright, An' to busk ye like a leddy."

"O Willy, I can caird an' spin, Sae ne'er can want for cleedin'; An' gin I hae my Willy's heart, I hae a' the pearls I'm heedin'.

"Will it be time to praise this cheek Whan years an' tears hae blenched it? Will it be time to talk o' love Whan cauld an' care hae quenched it?"

He's laid ae han' about her waist - The ither's held to heaven; An' his luik was like the luik o' man Wha's heart in twa is riven.

Hew Ainslie [1792-1878]

ABSENCE

With leaden foot Time creeps along While Delia is away: With her, nor plaintive was the song, Nor tedious was the day.

Ah, envious Power! reverse my doom; Now double thy career, Strain every nerve, stretch every plume, And rest them when she's here!

Richard Jago [1715-1781]

"MY MOTHER BIDS ME BIND MY HAIR"

My mother bids me bind my hair With bands of rosy hue; Tie up my sleeves with ribbons rare, And lace my bodice blue!

"For why," she cries, "sit still and weep, While others dance and play?" Alas! I scarce can go, or creep, While Lubin is away!

'Tis sad to think the days are gone When those we love were near! I sit upon this mossy stone, And sigh when none can hear:

And while I spin my flaxen thread, And sing my simple lay, The village seems asleep, or dead, Now Lubin is away!

Anne Hunter [1742-1821]

"BLOW HIGH! BLOW LOW!"

Blow high, blow low! let tempest tear The mainmast by the board! My heart (with thoughts of thee, my dear! And love well stored) Shall brave all danger, scorn all fear, The roaring wind, the raging sea, In hopes, on shore, To be once more Safe moored with thee.

Aloft, while mountain-high we go, The whistling winds that scud along, And the surge roaring from below, Shall my signal be To think on thee. And this shall be my Song, Blow high, blow low! let tempest tear. . . .

And on that night (when all the crew The memory of their former lives, O'er flowing cans of flip renew, And drink their sweethearts and their wives), I'll heave a sigh, And think of thee. And, as the ship toils through the sea, The burden of my Song shall be, Blow high, blow low! let tempest tear. . . .

Charles Dibdin [1745-1814]

THE SILLER CROUN

"And ye sall walk in silk attire, And siller ha'e to spare, Gin ye'll consent to be his bride, Nor think o' Donald mair."

Oh, wha wad buy a silken goun Wi' a puir broken heart? Or what's to me a siller croun, Gin' frae my luve I part?

The mind wha's every wish is pure Far dearer is to me; And ere I'm forced to break my faith, I'll lay me doun and dee.

For I ha'e pledged my virgin troth Brave Donald's fate to share; And he has gi'en to me his heart, Wi' a' its virtues rare.

His gentle manners wan my heart, He gratefu' took the gift; Could I but think to tak' it back, It wad be waur than theft.

For langest life can ne'er repay The love he bears to me; And ere I'm forced to break my troth I'll lay me doun and dee.

Susanna Blamire [1747-1794]

"MY NANNIE'S AWA'"

Now in her green mantle blithe Nature arrays, An' listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes, While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw; But to me it's delightless - my Nannie's awa'.

The snaw-drap an' primrose our woodlands adorn, An' violets bathe in the weet o' the morn; They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw, They mind me o' Nannie - an' Nannie's awa'.

Thou laverock that springs frae the dews of the lawn, The shepherd to warn o' the gray-breaking dawn, An' thou mellow mavis that hails the night-fa', Give over for pity - my Nannie's awa'.

Come, autumn, sae pensive, in yellow an' gray, An' soothe me wi' tidings o' Nature's decay; The dark, dreary winter, an' wild-driving snaw Alane can delight me - now Nannie's awa'.

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

"AE FOND KISS"

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, alas, for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee!

Who shall say that Fortune grieves him While the star of Hope she leaves him? Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me, Dark despair around benights me.

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy; Naething could resist my Nancy; But to see her was to love her, Love but her, and love for ever.

Had we never loved sae kindly, Had we never loved sae blindly, Never met, or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted.

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest! Thine be ilka joy and treasure, Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure!

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! Ae fareweel, alas, for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee!

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

"THE DAY RETURNS"

The day returns, my bosom burns, The blissful day we twa did meet; Though winter wild in tempest toiled, Ne'er summer sun was half sae sweet. Than a' the pride that loads the tide, And crosses o'er the sultry line, - Than kingly robes, and crowns and globes, Heaven gave me more, - it made thee mine.

While day and night can bring delight. Or Nature aught of pleasure give, - While joys above my mind can move, For thee, and thee alone, I live. When that grim foe of life below Comes in between to make us part, The iron hand that breaks our band, It breaks my bliss, - it breaks my heart.

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

MY BONNIE MARY

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, And fill it in a silver tassie, That I may drink, before I go, A service to my bonnie lassie. The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith, Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry, The ship rides by the Berwick-law, And I maun leave my bonnie Mary.

The trumpets sound, the banners fly, The glittering spears are ranked ready; The shouts o' war are heard afar, The battle closes thick and bloody; But it's no the roar o' sea or shore Wad mak me langer wish to tarry; Nor shout o' war that's heard afar - It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary!

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

A RED, RED ROSE

O, my luve's like a red, red rose That's newly sprung in June; O, my luve's like the melodie That's sweetly played in tune.

As fair thou art, my bonnie lass, So deep in luve am I; And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun; I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare-thee-weel, my only luve! And fare-thee-weel a while! And I will come again, my luve, Though it were ten thousand mile.

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

I LOVE MY JEAN

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw I dearly like the west, For there the bonnie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best: There's wild woods grow, and rivers row, And monie a hill between; But day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers, I see her sweet and fair: I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air: There's not a bonnie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green, There's not a bonnie bird that sings But minds me o' my Jean.

O blaw ye westlin winds, blaw saft Amang the leafy trees; Wi' balmy gale, frae hill and dale Bring hame the laden bees; And bring the lassie back to me That's aye sae neat and clean; Ae smile o' her wad banish care, Sae charming is my Jean.

What sighs and vows amang the knowes Hae passed atween us twa! How fond to meet, how wae to part That night she gaed awa! The Powers aboon can only ken To whom the heart is seen, That nane can be sae dear to me As my sweet lovely Jean!

The first two stanzas by Robert Burns [1759-1796] The last two by John Hamilton [1761-1814]

THE ROVER'S ADIEU From "Rokeby"

"A weary lot is thine, fair maid, A weary lot is thine! To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, And press the rue for wine. A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, A feather of the blue, A doublet of the Lincoln green - No more of me ye knew, My Love! No more of me ye knew.

"This morn is merry June, I trow, The rose is budding fain; But she shall bloom in winter snow Ere we two meet again." - He turned his charger as he spake Upon the river shore, He gave the bridle-reins a shake, Said "Adieu for evermore, My Love! And adieu for evermore."

Walter Scott [1771-1832]

"LOUDOUN'S BONNIE WOODS AND BRAES"

"Loudoun's bonnie woods and braes, I maun lea' them a', lassie; Wha can thole when Britain's faes Wad gi'e Britons law, lassie? Wha wad shun the field o' danger? Wha frae fame wad live a stranger? Now when freedom bids avenge her, Wha wad shun her ca', lassie? Loudoun's bonnie woods and braes Hae seen our happy bridal days, And gentle Hope shall soothe thy waes When I am far awa', lassie."

"Hark! the swelling bugle sings, Yielding joy to thee, laddie, But the dolefu' bugle brings Waefu' thoughts to me, laddie. Lanely I maun climb the mountain, Lanely stray beside the fountain, Still the weary moments countin', Far frae love and thee, laddie. O'er the gory fields of war, When Vengeance drives his crimson car, Thou'lt maybe fa', frae me afar, And nane to close thy e'e, laddie."

"O! resume thy wonted smile! O! suppress thy fears, lassie! Glorious honor crowns the toil That the soldier shares, lassie; Heaven will shield thy faithful lover Till the vengeful strife is over; Then we'll meet nae mair to sever; Till the day we dee, lassie. 'Midst our bonnie woods and braes We'll spend our peaceful, happy days, As blithe's yon lightsome lamb that plays On Loudoun's flowery lea, lassie."

Robert Tannahill [1774-1810]

"FARE THEE WELL"

Fare thee well and if for ever, Still for ever, fare thee well: Even though unforgiving, never 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.

Would that breast were bared before thee Where thy head so oft hath lain, While that placid sleep came o'er thee Which thou ne'er canst know again:

Would that breast, by thee glanced over, Every inmost thought could show! Then thou wouldst at last discover 'Twas not well to spurn it so.

Though the world for this commend thee, - Though it smile upon the blow, Even its praises must offend thee, Founded on another's woe:

Though my many faults defaced me, Could no other arm be found Than the one which once embraced me, To inflict a cureless wound?

Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not; Love may sink by slow decay, But by sudden wrench, believe not Hearts can thus be torn away:

Still thine own its life retaineth; - Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; And the undying thought which paineth Is - that we no more may meet.

These are words of deeper sorrow Than the wail above the dead; Both shall live, but every morrow Wake us from a widowed bed.

And when thou wouldst solace gather, When our child's first accents flow, Wilt thou teach her to say "Father!" Though his care she must forego?

When her little hands shall press thee, When her lip to thine is pressed, Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, Think of him thy love had blessed!

Should her lineaments resemble Those thou nevermore may'st see, Then thy heart will softly tremble With a pulse yet true to me.

All my faults perchance thou knowest, All my madness none can know; All my hopes, where'er thou goest, Whither, yet with thee they go.

Every feeling hath been shaken; Pride, which not a world could bow, Bows to thee, - by thee forsaken, Even my soul forsakes me now:

But 'tis done, - all words are idle, - Words from me are vainer still; But the thoughts we cannot bridle Force their way without the will.

Fare thee well! - thus disunited, Torn from every nearer tie, Seared in heart, and lone, and blighted, More than this I scarce can die.

George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]

"MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART"

Maid of Athens, ere we part, Give, oh, give me back my heart! Or, since that has left my breast, Keep it now, and take the rest! Hear my vow before I go, Zoe mou, sas agapo. (My life, I love you.)

By those tresses unconfined, Wooed by each Aegean wind; By those lids whose jetty fringe Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge; By those wild eyes like the roe, Zoe mou, sas agapo. (My life, I love you.)

By that lip I long to taste; By that zone-encircled waist; By all the token-flowers that tell What words can never speak so well; By love's alternate joy and woe, Zoe mou, sas agapo. (My life, I love you.)

Maid of Athens! I am gone: Think of me, sweet! when alone. Though I fly to Istambol, Athens holds my heart and soul: Can I cease to love thee? No! Zoe mou, sas agapo. (My life, I love you.)

George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]

"WHEN WE TWO PARTED"

When we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted, To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss; Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this!

The dew of the morning Sunk chill on my brow; It felt like the warning Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken, And light is thy fame: I hear thy name spoken And share in its shame.

They name thee before me, A knell to mine ear; A shudder comes o'er me - Why wert thou so dear? They know not I knew thee Who knew thee too well: Long, long shall I rue thee Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met: In silence I grieve That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee After long years, How should I greet thee? - With silence and tears.

George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]

"GO, FORGET ME"

Go, forget me! Why should sorrow O'er that brow a shadow fling? Go, forget me, - and to-morrow Brightly smile and sweetly sing. Smile - though I shall not be near thee. Sing - though I shall never hear thee. May thy soul with pleasure shine, Lasting as the gloom of mine.

Like the sun, thy presence glowing Clothes the meanest things in light; And when thou, like him, art going, Loveliest objects fade in night. All things looked so bright about thee, That they nothing seem without thee; By that pure and lucid mind Earthly things are too refined.

Go, thou vision, wildly gleaming, Softly on my soul that fell; Go, for me no longer beaming - Hope and Beauty, fare ye well! Go, and all that once delighted Take - and leave me, all benighted, Glory's burning, generous swell, Fancy, and the poet's shell.

Charles Wolfe [1791-1823]

LAST NIGHT

I sat with one I love last night, She sang to me an olden strain; In former times it woke delight, Last night - but pain.

Last night we saw the stars arise, But clouds soon dimmed the ether blue: And when we sought each other's eyes Tears dimmed them too!

We paced along our favorite walk, But paced in silence broken-hearted: Of old we used to smile and talk; Last night - we parted.

George Darley [1795-1846]

ADIEU

Let time and chance combine, combine, Let time and chance combine; The fairest love from heaven above, That love of yours was mine, My dear, That love of yours was mine.

The past is fled and gone, and gone, The past is fled and gone; If naught but pain to me remain, I'll fare in memory on, My dear, I'll fare in memory on.

The saddest tears must fall, must fall, The saddest tears must fall; In weal or woe, in this world below, I love you ever and all, My dear, I love you ever and all.

A long road full of pain, of pain, A long road full of pain; One soul, one heart, sworn ne'er to part, - We ne'er can meet again, My dear, We ne'er can meet again.

Hard fate will not allow, allow, Hard fate will not allow; We blessed were as the angels are, - Adieu forever now, My dear, Adieu forever now.

Thomas Carlyle [1795-1881]

JEANIE MORRISON

I've wandered east, I've wandered west, Through mony a weary way; But never, never can forget The luve o' life's young day! The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en, May weel be black gin Yule; But blacker fa' awaits the heart Where first fond luve grows cule.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, The thochts o' bygane years Still fling their shadows owre my path, And blind my een wi' tears: They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears; And sair and sick I pine, As Memory idly summons up The blithe blinks o' langsyne.

'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 'Twas then we twa did part; Sweet time, sad time! - twa bairns at schule, Twa bairns, and but ae heart! 'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink, To leir ilk ither lear; And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed, Remembered evermair.

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, When sitting on that bink, Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof, What our wee heads could think! When baith bent doun owre ae braid page, Wi' ae buik on our knee, Thy lips were on thy lesson, but My lesson was in thee.

Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads, How cheeks brent red wi' shame, Whene'er the schule-weans, laughin', said, We cleek'd thegither hame? And mind ye o' the Saturdays (The schule then skail't at noon), When we ran aff to speel the braes - The broomy braes o' June?

My head rins round and round about, My heart flows like a sea, As, ane by ane, the thochts rush back O' schule-time and o' thee. Oh, mornin' life! Oh, mornin' luve! Oh, lichtsome days and lang, When hinnied hopes around our hearts, Like simmer blossoms, sprang!

Oh, mind ye, luve, how aft we left The deavin' dinsome toun, To wander by the green burnside, And hear its waters croon? The simmer leaves hung owre our heads, The flowers burst round our feet, And in the gloamin' o' the wud The throssil whusslit sweet.

The throssil whusslit in the wud, The burn sung to the trees, And we, with Nature's heart in tune, Concerted harmonies; And on the knowe abune the burn For hours thegither sat In the silentness o' joy, till baith Wi' very gladness grat.

Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, Tears trinkled doun your cheek, Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane Had ony power to speak! That was a time, a blessed time, When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gushed all feelings forth, Unsyllabled - unsung!

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin I hae been to thee As closely twined wi' earliest thochts As ye hae been to me? Oh! tell me gin their music fills Thine ear as it does mine; Oh! say gin e'er your heart grows great Wi' dreamings o' langsyne?

I've wandered east, I've wandered west, I've borne a weary lot; But in my wanderings, far or near, Ye never were forgot. The fount that first burst frae this heart, Still travels on its way; And channels deeper as it rins The luve o' life's young day.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Since we were sindered young, I've never seen your face, nor heard The music o' your tongue; But I could hug all wretchedness, And happy could I dee, Did I but ken your heart still dreamed O' bygane days and me!

William Motherwell [1797-1835]

THE SEA-LANDS

Would I were on the sea-lands, Where winds know how to sting; And in the rocks at midnight The lost long murmurs sing.

Would I were with my first love To hear the rush and roar Of spume below the doorstep And winds upon the door.

My first love was a fair girl With ways forever new; And hair a sunlight yellow, And eyes a morning blue.

The roses, have they tarried Or are they dun and frayed? If we had stayed together, Would love, indeed, have stayed?

Ah, years are filled with learning, And days are leaves of change! And I have met so many I knew . . . and found them strange.

But on the sea-lands tumbled By winds that sting and blind, The nights we watched, so silent, Come back, come back to mind . . .

I mind about my first love, And hear the rush and roar Of spume below the doorstep And winds upon the door.

Orrick Johns [1887-

FAIR INES

O saw ye not fair Ines? She's gone into the West, To dazzle when the sun is down, And rob the world of rest: She took our daylight with her, The smiles that we love best, With morning blushes on her cheek, And pearls upon her breast.

O turn again, fair Ines, Before the fall of night, For fear the Moon should shine alone, And stars unrivaled bright; And blessed will the lover be That walks beneath their light, And breathes the love against thy cheek I dare not even write!

Would I had been, fair Ines, That gallant cavalier, Who rode so gaily by thy side, And whispered thee so near! Were there no bonny dames at home, Or no true lovers here, That he should cross the seas to win The dearest of the dear?

I saw thee, lovely Ines, Descend along the shore, With bands of noble gentlemen, And banners waved before; And gentle youth and maidens gay, And snowy plumes they wore: It would have been a beauteous dream, - If it had been no more!

Alas, alas! fair Ines, She went away with song, With Music waiting on her steps, And shoutings of the throng; But some were sad, and felt no mirth, But only Music's wrong, In sounds that sang Farewell, farewell, To her you've loved so long.

Farewell, farewell, fair Ines! That vessel never bore So fair a lady on its deck, Nor danced so light before, - Alas for pleasure on the sea, And sorrow on the shore! The smile that blessed one lover's heart Has broken many more!

Thomas Hood [1799-1845]

A VALEDICTION

God be with thee, my beloved, - God be with thee! Else alone thou goest forth, Thy face unto the north, Moor and pleasance all around thee and beneath thee Looking equal in one snow; While I, who try to reach thee, Vainly follow, vainly follow With the farewell and the hollo, And cannot reach thee so. Alas, I can but teach thee! God be with thee, my beloved, - God be with thee!

Can I teach thee, my beloved, - can I teach thee? If I said, "Go left or right," The counsel would be light, The wisdom, poor of all that could enrich thee; My right would show like left; My raising would depress thee, My choice of light would blind thee, Of way - would leave behind thee, Of end - would leave bereft. Alas, I can but bless thee! May God teach thee, my beloved, - may God teach thee!

Can I bless thee, my beloved, - can I bless thee? What blessing word can I From mine own tears keep dry? What flowers grow in my field wherewith to dress thee? My good reverts to ill; My calmnesses would move thee, My softnesses would prick thee, My bindings up would break thee, My crownings curse and kill. Alas, I can but love thee! May God bless thee, my beloved, - may God bless thee!

Can I love thee, my beloved, - can I love thee? And is this like love, to stand With no help in my hand, When strong as death I fain would watch above thee? My love-kiss can deny No tear that falls beneath it; Mine oath of love can swear thee From no ill that comes near thee, And thou diest while I breathe it, And I - I can but die! May God love thee, my beloved, - may God love thee!

Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]

FAREWELL

Thou goest; to what distant place Wilt thou thy sunlight carry? I stay with cold and clouded face: How long am I to tarry? Where'er thou goest, morn will be; Thou leavest night and gloom to me.

The night and gloom I can but take; I do not grudge thy splendor: Bid souls of eager men awake; Be kind and bright and tender. Give day to other worlds; for me It must suffice to dream of thee.

John Addington Symonds [1840-1893]

"I DO NOT LOVE THEE"

I do not love thee! - no! I do not love thee! And yet when thou art absent I am sad; And envy even the bright blue sky above thee, Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad.

I do not love thee! - yet, I know not why, Whate'er thou dost seems still well done, to me: And often in my solitude I sigh That those I do love are not more like thee!

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 he 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!

Unknown

BONNIE DOON

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fair! How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae fu' o' care!

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird That sings upon the bough; Thou minds me o' the happy days When my fause Luve was true.

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird That sings beside thy mate; For sae I sat, and sae I sang, And wist na o' my fate.

Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon To see the woodbine twine, And ilka bird sang o' its love; And sae did I o' mine.

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Frae aff its thorny tree; And my fause luver staw the rose, But left the thorn wi' me.

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

THE TWO LOVERS

The lover of her body said: "She is more beautiful than night, - But like the kisses of the dead Is my despair and my delight."

The lover of her soul replied: "She is more wonderful than death, - But bitter as the aching tide Is all the speech of love she saith."

The lover of her body said: "To know one secret of her heart, For all the joy that I have had, Is past the reach of all my art."

The lover of her soul replied: "The secrets of her heart are mine, - Save how she lives, a riven bride, Between the dust and the divine."

The lover of her body sware: "Though she should hate me, wit you well, Rather than yield one kiss of her I give my soul to burn in hell."

The lover of her soul cried out: "Rather than leave her to your greed, I would that I were walled about With death, - and death were death indeed!"

The lover of her body wept, And got no good of all his gain, Knowing that in her heart she kept The penance of the other's pain.

The lover of her soul went mad, But when he did himself to death, Despite of all the woe he had, He smiled as one who vanquisheth.

Richard Hovey [1864-1900]

THE VAMPIRE As suggested By The Painting By Philip Burne-Jones

A fool there was and he made his prayer (Even as you and I!) To a rag and a bone and a hank of hair (We called her the woman who did not care), But the fool he called her his lady fair (Even as you and I!)

Oh the years we waste and the tears we waste, And the work of our head and hand, Belong to the woman who did not know (And now we know that she never could know) And did not understand.

A fool there was and his goods he spent (Even as you and I!) Honor and faith and a sure intent (And it wasn't the least what the lady meant), But a fool must follow his natural bent (Even as you and I!)

Oh the toil we lost and the spoil we lost, And the excellent things we planned, Belong to the woman who didn't know why (And now we know she never knew why) And did not understand.

The fool was stripped to his foolish hide (Even as you and I!) Which she might have seen when she threw him aside, - (But it isn't on record the lady tried) So some of him lived but the most of him died - (Even as you and I!)

And it isn't the shame and it isn't the blame That stings like a white-hot brand. It's coming to know that she never knew why (Seeing at last she could never know why) And never could understand.

Rudyard Kipling [1865-1936]

AGATHA

She wanders in the April woods, That glisten with the fallen shower; She leans her face against the buds, She stops, she stoops, she plucks a flower. She feels the ferment of the hour: She broodeth when the ringdove broods; The sun and flying clouds have power Upon her cheek and changing moods. She cannot think she is alone, As o'er her senses warmly steal Floods of unrest she fears to own. And almost dreads to feel.

Along the summer woodlands wide Anew she roams, no more alone; The joy she feared is at her side, Spring's blushing secret now is known. The thrush's ringing note hath died; But glancing eye and glowing tone Fall on her from her god, her guide. She knows not, asks not, what the goal, She only feels she moves towards bliss, And yields her pure unquestioning soul To touch and fondling kiss.

And still she haunts those woodland ways, Though all fond fancy finds there now To mind of spring or summer days, Are sodden trunk and songless bough. The past sits widowed on her brow, Homeward she wends with wintry gaze, To walls that house a hollow vow, To hearth where love hath ceased to blaze: Watches the clammy twilight wane, With grief too fixed for woe or tear; And, with her forehead 'gainst the pane, Envies the dying year.

Alfred Austin [1835-1913]

"A ROSE WILL FADE"

You were always a dreamer, Rose - red Rose, As you swung on your perfumed spray, Swinging, and all the world was true, Swaying, what did it trouble you? A rose will fade in a day.

Why did you smile to his face, red Rose, As he whistled across your way? And all the world went mad for you, All the world it knelt to woo. A rose will bloom in a day.

I gather your petals, Rose - red Rose, The petals he threw away. And all the world derided you; Ah! the world, how well it knew A rose will fade in a day!

Dora Sigerson Shorter [1862-1918]

AFFAIRE D'AMOUR

One pale November day Flying Summer paused, They say: And growing bolder, O'er rosy shoulder Threw her lover such a glance That Autumn's heart began to dance. (O happy lover!)

A leafless peach-tree bold Thought for him she smiled, I'm told; And, stirred by love, His sleeping sap did move, Decking each naked branch with green To show her that her look was seen! (Alas, poor lover!)

But Summer, laughing fled, Nor knew he loved her! 'Tis said The peach-tree sighed, And soon he gladly died: And Autumn, weary of the chase, Came on at Winter's sober pace (O careless lover!)

Margaret Deland [1857-

A CASUAL SONG

She sang of lovers met to play "Under the may bloom, under the may," But when I sought her face so fair, I found the set face of Despair.

She sang of woodland leaves in spring, And joy of young love dallying; But her young eyes were all one moan, And Death weighed on her heart like stone.

I could not ask, I know not now, The story of that mournful brow; It haunts me as it haunted then, A flash from fire of hellbound men.

Roden Noel [1834-1894]

THE WAY OF IT

The wind is awake, pretty leaves, pretty leaves, Heed not what he says; he deceives, he deceives: Over and over To the lowly clover He has lisped the same love (and forgotten it, too) He will soon be lisping and pledging to you.

The boy is abroad, pretty maid, pretty maid, Beware his soft words; I'm afraid, I'm afraid: He has said them before Times many a score, Ay, he died for a dozen ere his beard pricked through, And the very same death he will die for you.

The way of the boy is the way of the wind, As light as the leaves is dainty maid-kind; One to deceive, And one to believe - That is the way of it, year to year; But I know you will learn it too late, my dear.

John Vance Cheney [1848-1922]

"WHEN LOVELY WOMAN STOOPS TO FOLLY" From "The Vicar of Wakefield"

When lovely woman stoops to folly And finds too late that men betray, - What charm can soothe her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover And wring his bosom, is - to die.

Oliver Goldsmith [1728-1774]

FOLK-SONG

Back she came through the trembling dusk; And her mother spoke and said: "What is it makes you late to-day, And why do you smile and sing as gay As though you just were wed?" "Oh mother, my hen that never had chicks Has hatched out six!"

Back she came through the flaming dusk; And her mother spoke and said: "What gives your eyes that dancing light, What makes your lips so strangely bright, And why are your cheeks so red?" "Oh mother, the berries I ate in the lane Have left a stain."

Back she came through the faltering dusk; And her mother spoke and said: "You are weeping; your footstep is heavy with care - What makes you totter and cling to the stair, And why do you hang your head?" "Oh mother - oh mother - you never can know - I loved him so!"

Louis Untermeyer [1885-

A VERY OLD SONG

"Daughter, thou art come to die: Sound be thy sleeping, lass." "Well: without lament or cry, Mother, let me pass."

"What things on mould were best of all? (Soft be thy sleeping, lass.)" "The apples reddening till they fall In the sun beside the convent wall. Let me pass."

"Whom on earth hast thou loved best? (Sound be thy sleeping, lass.)" "Him that shared with me thy breast; Thee and a knight last year our guest. He hath an heron to his crest. Let me pass."

"What leavest thou of fame or hoard? (Soft be thy sleeping, lass.)" "My far-blown shame for thy reward; To my brother, gold to get him a sword. Let me pass."

"But what wilt leave thy lover, Grim? (Sound be thy sleeping, lass.)" "The hair he kissed to strangle him. Mother, let me pass."

William Laird [1888-

"SHE WAS YOUNG AND BLITHE AND FAIR"

She was young and blithe and fair, Firm of purpose, sweet and strong; Perfect was her crown of hair, Perfect most of all her song.

Yesterday beneath an oak, She was chanting in the wood: Wandering harmonies awoke; Sleeping echoes understood.

To-day without a song, without a word, She seems to drag one piteous fallen wing Along the ground, and, like a wounded bird, Move silent, having lost the heart to sing.

She was young and blithe and fair, Firm of purpose, sweet and strong; Perfect was her crown of hair, Perfect most of all her song.

Harold Monro [1879-1932]

THE LASS THAT DIED OF LOVE

Life is not dear or gay Till lovers kiss it, Love stole my life away Ere I might miss it. In sober March I vowed I'd have no lover, Love laid me in my shroud Ere June was over.

I felt his body take My body to it, And knew my heart would break Ere I should rue it; June roses are not sad When dew-drops steep them, My moments were so glad I could not keep them.

Proud was I love had made Desire to fill me, I shut my eyes and prayed That he might kill me. I saw new wonders wreathe The stars above him. And oh, I could not breathe For kissing of him.

Is love too sweet to last, Too fierce to cherish, Can kisses fall too fast And lovers perish? Who heeds since love disarms Death, ere we near him? Within my lover's arms I did not fear him!

But since I died in sin And all unshriven, They would not let me win Into their heaven; They would not let my bier Into God's garden, But bade me tarry here And pray for pardon.

I lie and wait for grace That shall surround me, His kisses on my face, His arms around me; And sinless maids draw near To drop above me A virginal sad tear For envy of me.

Richard Middleton [1882-1911]

THE PASSION-FLOWER

My love gave me a passion-flower. I nursed it well - so brief its hour! My eyelids ache, my throat is dry: He told me that it would not die.

My love and I are one, and yet Full oft my cheeks with tears are wet - So sweet the night is and the bower! My love gave me a passion-flower.

So sweet! Hold fast my hands. Can God Make all this joy revert to sod, And leave to me but this for dower - My love gave me a passion-flower.

Margaret Fuller [1871-

NORAH

I knew his house by the poplar-trees, Green and silvery in the breeze;

"A heaven-high hedge," were the words he said, "And holly-hocks, pink and white and red. . . ."

It seemed so far from McChesney's Hall - Where first he told me about it all.

A long path runs inside from the gate, - He still can take it, early or late;

But where in the world is the path for me Except the river that runs to the sea!

Zoe Akins [1886-

OF JOAN'S YOUTH

I would unto my fair restore A simple thing: The flushing cheek she had before! Out-velveting No more, no more, On our sad shore, The carmine grape, the moth's auroral wing.

Ah, say how winds in flooding grass Unmoor the rose; Or guileful ways the salmon pass To sea, disclose; For so, alas, With Love, alas, With fatal, fatal Love a girlhood goes.

Louise Imogen Guiney [1861-1920]

THERE'S WISDOM IN WOMEN

"On love is fair, and love is rare;" my dear one she said, "But love goes lightly over." I bowed her foolish head, And kissed her hair and laughed at her. Such a child was she; So new to love, so true to love, and she spoke so bitterly.

But there's wisdom in women, of more than they have known, And thoughts go blowing through them, are wiser than their own, Or how should my dear one, being ignorant and young, Have cried on love so bitterly, with so true a tongue?

Rupert Brooke [1887-1915]

GOETHE AND FREDERIKA

Wander, oh, wander, maiden sweet, In the fairy bower, while yet you may; See in rapture he lies at your feet; Rest on the truth of the glorious youth, Rest - for a summer day. That great clear spirit of flickering fire You have lulled awhile in magic sleep, But you cannot fill his wide desire. His heart is tender, his eyes are deep, His words divinely flow; But his voice and his glance are not for you; He never can be to a maiden true; Soon will he wake and go. Well, well, 'twere a piteous thing To chain forever that strong young wing. Let the butterfly break for his own sweet sake The gossamer threads that have bound him; Let him shed in free flight his rainbow light, And gladden the world around him. Short is the struggle and slight is the strain; Such a web was made to be broken, And she that wove it may weave again Or, if no power of love to bless Can heal the wound in her bosom true, It is but a lorn heart more or less, And hearts are many and poets few, So his pardon is lightly spoken.

Henry Sidgwick [1838-1901]

THE SONG OF THE KING'S MINSTREL

I sing no longer of the skies, And the swift clouds like driven ships, For there is earth upon my eyes And earth between my singing lips. Because the King loved not my song That he had found so sweet before, I lie at peace the whole night long, And sing no more. The King liked well my song that night; Upon the palace roof he lay With his fair Queen, and as I might I sang, until the morning's gray Crept o'er their faces, and the King, Mocked by the breaking dawn above, Clutched at his youth and bade me sing A song of love.

Well it might be - the King was old, And though his Queen was passing fair, His dull eyes might not catch the gold That tangled in her wayward hair, It had been much to see her smile, But with my song I made her weep. Our heavens last but a little while, So now I sleep.

More than the pleasures that I had I would have flung away to know My song of love could make her sad, Her sweet eyes fill and tremble so. What were my paltry store of years, My body's wretched life to stake, Against the treasure of her tears, For my love's sake?

Not lightly is a King made wise; My body ached beneath his whips, And there is earth upon my eyes, And earth between my singing lips. But I sang once - and for that grace I am content to lie and store The vision of her dear, wet face, And sing no more.

Richard Middleton [1882-1911]

ANNIE SHORE AND JOHNNIE DOON

Annie Shore, 'twas, sang last night Down in South End saloon; A tawdry creature in the light, Painted cheeks, eyes over bright, Singing a dance-hall tune.

I'd be forgetting Annie's singing - I'd not have thought again - But for the thing that cried and fluttered Through all the shrill refrain: Youth crying above foul words, cheap music, And innocence in pain.

They sentenced Johnnie Doon today For murder, stark and grim: Death's none too dear a price, they say, For such-like men as him to pay: No need to pity him!

And Johnnie Doon I'd not be pitying - I could forget him now - But for the childish look of trouble That fell across his brow, For the twisting hands he looked at dumbly As if they'd sinned, he knew not how.

Patrick Orr [18

EMMY

Emmy's exquisite youth and her virginal air, Eyes and teeth in the flash of a musical smile, Come to me out of the past, and I see her there As I saw her once for a while.

Emmy's laughter rings in my ears, as bright, Fresh and sweet as the voice of a mountain brook, And still I hear her telling us tales that night, Out of Boccaccio's book.

There, in the midst of the villainous dancing-hall, Leaning across the table, over the beer, While the music maddened the whirling skirts of the ball, As the midnight hour drew near,

There with the women, haggard, painted and old, One fresh bud in a garland withered and stale, She, with her innocent voice and her clear eyes, told Tale after shameless tale.

And ever the witching smile, to her face beguiled, Paused and broadened, and broke in a ripple of fun, And the soul of a child looked out of the eyes of a child, Or ever the tale was done.

O my child, who wronged you first, and began First the dance of death that you dance so well? Soul for soul: and I think the soul of a man Shall answer for yours in hell.

Arthur Symons [1865-

THE BALLAD OF CAMDEN TOWN

I walked with Maisie long years back The streets of Camden Town, I splendid in my suit of black, And she divine in brown.

Hers was a proud and noble face, A secret heart, and eyes Like water in a lonely place Beneath unclouded skies.

A bed, a chest, a faded mat, And broken chairs a few, Were all we had to grace our flat In Hazel Avenue.

But I could walk to Hampstead Heath, And crown her head with daisies, And watch the streaming world beneath, And men with other Maisies.

When I was ill and she was pale And empty stood our store, She left the latchkey on its nail, And saw me nevermore.

Perhaps she cast herself away Lest both of us should drown: Perhaps she feared to die, as they Who die in Camden Town.

What came of her? The bitter nights Destroy the rose and lily, And souls are lost among the lights Of painted Piccadilly.

What came of her? The river flows So deep and wide and stilly, And waits to catch the fallen rose And clasp the broken lily.

I dream she dwells in London still And breathes the evening air, And often walk to Primrose Hill, And hope to meet her there.

Once more together we will live, For I will find her yet: I have so little to forgive; So much, I can't forget.

James Elroy Flecker [1884-1915]

LOVE AND DEATH

HELEN OF KIRCONNELL

I wish I were where Helen lies, Night and day on me she cries; O that I were where Helen lies, On fair Kirconnell lea!

Cursed be the heart that thought the thought, And cursed the hand that fired the shot, When in my arms burd Helen dropped, And died to succor me!

O think na ye my heart was sair, When my Love dropped and spak nae mair! There did she swoon wi' meikle care, On fair Kirconnell lea.

As I went down the water side, None but my foe to be my guide, None but my foe to be my guide, On fair Kirconnell lea;

I lighted down my sword to draw, I hacked him in pieces sma', I hacked him in pieces sma', For her sake that died for me.

O Helen fair, beyond compare! I'll mak a garland o' thy hair, Shall bind my heart for evermair, Until the day I dee!

O that I were where Helen lies Night and day on me she cries; Out of my bed she bids me rise, Says, Haste, and come to me!"

O Helen fair! O Helen chaste! If I were with thee, I'd be blest, Where thou lies low and taks thy rest, On fair Kirconnell lea.

I wish my grave were growing green, A winding-sheet drawn owre my e'en, And I in Helen's arms lying, On fair Kirconnell lea.

I wish I were where Helen lies! Night and day on me she cries; And I am weary of the skies, For her sake that died for me.

Unknown

WILLY DROWNED IN YARROW

"Willy's rare, and Willy's fair, And Willy's wondrous bonny; And Willy hecht to marry me, Gin e'er he married ony.

"Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid, This night I'll make it narrow; Fpr a' the livelang winter night I lie twined of my marrow.

"Oh came you by yon water-side? Pu'd you the rose or lily? Or came you by yon meadow green? Or saw you my sweet Willy?"

She sought him east, she sought him west, She sought him braid and narrow; Syne in the cleaving of a craig, She found him drowned in Yarrow.

Unknown

ANNAN WATER

"Annan Water's wading deep, And my Love Annie's wondrous bonny; And I am laith she should wet her feet, Because I love her best of ony."

He's loupen on his bonny gray, He rade the right gate and the ready; For all the storm he wadna stay, For seeking of his bonny lady.

And he has ridden o'er field and fell, Through moor, and moss, and many a mire; His spurs of steel were sair to bide, And from her four feet flew the fire.

"My bonny gray, now play your part! If ye be the steed that wins my dearie, With corn and hay ye'll be fed for aye, And never spur shall make you wearie."

The gray was a mare, and a right gude mare; But when she wan the Annan Water, She could not have ridden the ford that night Had a thousand merks been wadded at her.

"O boatman, boatman, put off your boat, Put off your boat for golden money!" But for all the gold in fair Scotland, He dared not take him through to Annie.

"Oh, I was sworn so late yestreen, Not by a single oath, but mony! I'll cross the drumly stream tonight, Or never could I face my honey."

The side was stey, and the bottom deep, From bank to brae the water pouring; The bonny gray mare she swat for fear, For she heard the water-kelpy roaring.

He spurred her forth into the flood, I wot she swam both strong and steady; But the stream was broad, and her strength did fail, And he never saw his bonny lady!

Unknown

THE LAMENT OF THE BORDER WIDOW

My love he built me a bonnie bower, And clad it a' wi' lily flower; A brawer bower ye ne'er did see, Than my true-love he built for me.

There came a man, by middle day, He spied his sport, and went away; And brought the king that very night, Who brake my bower, and slew my knight.

He slew my knight, to me sae dear; He slew my knight, and poin'd his gear: My servants all for life did flee, And left me in extremitie.

I sewed his sheet, making my mane; I watched the corpse, mysel alane; I watched his body night and day; No living creature came that way.

I took his body on my back, And whiles I gaed, and whiles I sat; I digged a grave, and laid him in, And happed him with the sod sae green.

But think na ye my heart was sair, When I laid the moul' on his yellow hair? O, think na ye my heart was wae, When I turned about, away to gae?

Nae living man I'll love again, Since that my lovely knight is slain; Wi' ae lock o' his yellow hair I'll chain my heart for evermair.

Unknown

ASPATIA'S SONG From "The Maid's Tragedy"

Lay a garland on my hearse Of the dismal yew; Maidens, willow branches bear; Say, I died true.

My love was false, but I was firm From my hour of birth. Upon my buried body lie Lightly, gentle earth!

John Fletcher [1579-1625]

A BALLAD From the "What-d'ye-call-it"

'Twas when the seas were roaring With hollow blasts of wind, A damsel lay deploring, All on a rock reclined. Wide o'er the foaming billows She cast a wistful look; Her head was crowned with willows, That trembled o'er the brook.

"Twelve months are gone and over, And nine long tedious days; Why didst thou, venturous lover, Why didst thou trust the seas? Cease, cease thou cruel ocean, And let my lover rest; Ah! what's thy troubled motion To that within my breast?

"The merchant robbed of pleasure, Sees tempests in despair; But what's the loss of treasure, To losing of my dear? Should you some coast be laid on, Where gold and diamonds grow, You'd find a richer maiden, But none that loves you so.

"How can they say that nature Has nothing made in vain; Why then, beneath the water, Should hideous rocks remain? No eyes the rocks discover That lurk beneath the deep, To wreck the wandering lover, And leave the maid to weep."

All melancholy lying, Thus wailed she for her dear; Repaid each blast with sighing, Each billow with a tear. When, o'er the white wave stooping, His floating corpse she spied, Then, like a lily drooping, She bowed her head, and died.

John Gay [1685-1732]

THE BRAES OF YARROW

Thy braes were bonnie, Yarrow stream, When first on them I met my lover: Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream, When now thy waves his body cover! Forever now, O Yarrow stream! Thou art to me a stream of sorrow; For never on thy banks shall I Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow.

He promised me a milk-white steed, To bear me to his father's bowers; He promised me a little page, To squire me to his father's towers; He promised me a wedding-ring, - The wedding-day was fixed to-morrow; Now he is wedded to his grave, Alas! his watery grave, in Yarrow.

Sweet were his words when last we met: My passion I as freely told him: Clasped in his arms, I little thought That I should never more behold him! Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost; It vanished with a shriek of sorrow; Thrice did the water-wraith ascend, And gave a doleful groan through Yarrow.

His mother from the window looked, With all the longing of a mother; His little sister weeping walked The greenwood path to meet her brother. They sought him east, they sought him west, They sought him all the forest thorough; They only saw the cloud of night, They only heard the roar of Yarrow!

No longer from thy window look, - Thou hast no son, thou tender mother! No longer walk, thou little maid; Alas! thou hast no more a brother. No longer seek him east or west, And search no more the forest thorough; For, wandering in the night so dark, He fell a lifeless corse in Yarrow.

The tear shall never leave my cheek, No other youth shall be my marrow: I'll seek thy body in the stream, And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow. The tear did never leave her cheek, No other youth became her marrow; She found his body in the stream, And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow.

John Logan [1748-1788]

THE CHURCHYARD ON THE SANDS

My love lies in the gates of foam, The last dear wreck of shore; The naked sea-marsh binds her home, The sand her chamber door.

The gray gull flaps the written stones, The ox-birds chase the tide; And near that narrow field of bones Great ships at anchor ride.

Black piers with crust of dripping green, One foreland, like a hand, O'er intervals of grass between Dim lonely dunes of sand.

A church of silent weathered looks, A breezy reddish tower, A yard whose mounded resting-nooks Are tinged with sorrel flower.

In peace the swallow's eggs are laid Along the belfry walls; The tempest does not reach her shade, The rain her silent halls.

But sails are sweet in summer sky, The lark throws down a lay; The long salt levels steam and dry, The cloud-heart melts away.

But patches of the sea-pink shine, The pied crows poise and come; The mallow hangs, the bind-weeds twine, Where her sweet lips are dumb.

The passion of the wave is mute; No sound or ocean shock; No music save the trilling flute That marks the curlew flock.

But yonder when the wind is keen, And rainy air is clear, The merchant city's spires are seen, The toil of men grows near.

Along the coast-way grind the wheels Of endless carts of coal; And on the sides of giant keels The shipyard hammers roll.

The world creeps here upon the shout, And stirs my heart to pain; The mist descends and blots it out, And I am strong again.

Strong and alone, my dove, with thee; And though mine eyes be wet, There's nothing in the world to me So dear as my regret.

I would not change my sorrow sweet For others' nuptial hours; I love the daisies at thy feet More than their orange flowers.

My hand alone shall tend thy tomb From leaf-bud to leaf-fall, And wreathe around each season's bloom Till autumn ruins all.

Let snowdrops early in the year Droop o'er her silent breast; And bid the later cowslip rear The amber of its crest.

Come hither, linnets tufted-red; Drift by, O wailing tern; Set pure vale lilies at her head, At her feet lady-fern.

Grow, samphire, at the tidal brink, Wave pansies of the shore, To whisper how alone I think Of her for evermore.

Bring blue sea-hollies thorny, keen, Long lavender in flower; Gray wormwood like a hoary queen, Stanch mullein like a tower.

O sea-wall, mounded long and low, Let iron bounds be thine; Nor let the salt wave overflow That breast I held divine.

Nor float its sea-weed to her hair, Nor dim her eyes with sands; No fluted cockle burrow where Sleep folds her patient hands.

Though thy crest feel the wild sea's breath, Though tide-weight tear thy root, Oh, guard the treasure-house, where death Has bound my Darling mute.

Though cold her pale lips to reward With love's own mysteries, Ah, rob no daisy from her swand, Rough gale of eastern seas!

Ah, render sere no silken bent That by her head-stone waves; Let noon and golden summer blent Pervade these ocean graves.

And, ah, dear heart, in thy still nest, Resign this earth of woes, Forget the ardors of the west, Neglect the morning glows.

Sleep and forget all things but one, Heard in each wave of sea, - How lonely all the years will run Until I rest by thee.

John Byrne Leicester Warren [1835-1895]

THE MINSTREL'S SONG From "Aella"

Oh sing unto my roundelay; Oh drop the briny tear with me; Dance no more at holiday; Like a running river be! My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow tree!

Black his hair as the winter night, White his throat as the summer snow, Red his cheek as the morning light, Cold he lies in the grave below.

Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note; Quick in dance as thought can be; Deft his tabor, cudgel stout, Oh, he lies by the willow tree.

Hark! the raven flaps his wing In the briery dell below; Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing, To the night-mares as they go.

See! the white moon shines on high; Whiter is my true love's shroud; Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud.

Here, upon my true love's grave, Shall the barren, flowers be laid; Not one holy saint to save All the coldness of a maid.

With my hands I'll twist the briers Round his holy corpse to gre; Elfin fairy, light your fires, Here my body still shall be.

Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, Drain my heartes blood away; Life and all its good I scorn, Dance by night, or feast by day.

Water-witches, crowned with reeds, Bear me to your deadly tide. I die! I come! my true love waits! Thus the damsel spake, and died.

Thomas Chatterton [1752-1770]

HIGHLAND MARY

Ye banks and braes and streams around The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie! There simmer first unfauld her robes, And there the langest tarry; For there I took the last fareweel O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, How rich the hawthorn's blossom, As underneath their fragrant shade I clasped her to my bosom! The golden hours on angel's wings Flew o'er me and my dearie; For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' mony a vow and locked embrace Our parting was fu' tender; And, pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursels asunder; But, O! fell Death's untimely frost, That nipped my flower sae early! Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary!

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, I aft hae kissed sae fondly! And closed for aye the sparkling glance That dwelt on me sae kindly; And moldering now in silent dust That heart that lo'ed me dearly! But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary.

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

TO MARY IN HEAVEN

Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

That sacred hour can I forget, Can I forget the hallowed grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love! Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace, - Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!

Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, Twined amorous round the raptured scene; The flowers sprang wanton to be pressed, The birds sang love on every spray, - Till soon, too soon, the glowing west Proclaimed the speed of winged day.

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, And fondly broods with miser care! Time but the impression stronger makes, As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

LUCY

I Strange fits of passion have I known: And I will dare to tell, But in the lover's ear alone, What once to me befell.

When she I loved looked every day Fresh as a rose in June, I to her cottage bent my way, Beneath an evening moon.

Upon the moon I fixed my eye, All over the wide lea; With quickening pace my horse drew nigh Those paths so dear to me.

And now we reached the orchard-plot; And, as we climbed the hill, The sinking moon to Lucy's cot Came near, and nearer still.

In one of those sweet dreams I slept, Kind Nature's gentlest boon! And all the while my eyes I kept On the descending moon.

My horse moved on; hoof after hoof He raised, and never stopped: When down behind the cottage roof, At once, the bright moon dropped.

What fond and wayward thoughts will slide Into a lover's head! "O mercy!" to myself I cried, "If Lucy should be dead!"

II She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye! Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and oh, The difference to me!

III I traveled among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea; Nor, England! did I know till then What love I bore to thee.

'Tis past, that melancholy dream! Nor will I quit thy shore A second time; for still I seem To love thee more and more.

Among thy mountains did I feel The joy of my desire; And she I cherished turned her wheel Beside an English fire.

Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed, The bowers where Lucy played; And thine too is the last green field That Lucy's eyes surveyed.

IV Three years she grew in sun and shower; Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower On earth was never sown; This child I to myself will take; She shall be mine, and I will make A lady of my own.

"Myself will to my darling be Both law and impulse: and with me The girl, in rock and plain, In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power To kindle or restrain.

"She shall be sportive as the fawn That wild with glee across the lawn Or up the mountain springs; And hers shall be the breathing balm, And hers the silence and the calm Of mute insensate things.

"The floating clouds their state shall lend To her; for her the willow bend; Nor shall she fail to see Even in the motions of the storm Grace that shall mold the maiden's form By silent sympathy.

"The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.

"And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Her virgin bosom swell; Such thoughts to Lucy I will give While she and I together live Here in this happy dell."

Thus Nature spake - The work was done - How soon my Lucy's race was run! She died, and left to me This heath, this calm and quiet scene; The memory of what has been, And never more will be.

V A slumber did my spirit seal; I had no human fears: She seemed a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years.

No motion has she now, or force; She neither hears nor sees; Rolled round in earth's diurnal course, With rocks, and stones, and trees.

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

PROUD MAISIE From "The Heart of Midlothian"

Proud Maisie is in the wood, Walking so early; Sweet Robin sits on the bush, Singing so rarely.

"Tell me, thou bonny bird, When shall I marry me?" - "When six braw gentlemen Kirkward shall carry ye."

Who makes the bridal bed, Birdie, say truly?" - "The gray-headed sexton That delves the grave duly.

"The glow-worm o'er grave and stone Shall light thee steady; The owl from the steeple sing Welcome, proud lady!"

Walter Scott [1771-1832]

SONG

Earl March looked on his dying child, And, smit with grief to view her - The youth, he cried, whom I exiled Shall be restored to woo her.

She's at the window many an hour His coming to discover; And he looked up to Ellen's bower And she looked on her lover -

But ah! so pale, he knew her not, Though her smile on him was dwelling! And I am then forgot - forgot? It broke the heart of Ellen.

In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs, Her cheek is cold as ashes; Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes To lift their silken lashes.

Thomas Campbell [1777-1844]

THE MAID'S LAMENT From "The Examination of Shakespeare"

I loved him not; and yet now he is gone I feel I am alone. I checked him while he spoke; yet could he speak, Alas! I would not check. For reasons not to love him once I sought, And wearied all my thought To vex myself and him: I now would give My love, could he but live Who lately lived for me, and when he found 'Twas vain, in holy ground He hid his face amid the shades of death. I waste for him my breath Who wasted his for me; but mine returns, And this lorn bosom burns With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep, And waking me to weep Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years Wept he as bitter tears. Merciful God! Such was his latest prayer, These may she never share! Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold, Than daisies in the mold, Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate, His name and life's brief date. Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er you be, And, oh! pray too for me!

Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]

"SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND"

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, And lovers are round her, sighing: But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, For her heart in his grave is lying.

She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, Every note which he loved awaking; - Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains, How the heart of the minstrel is breaking.

He had lived for his love, for his country he died, They were all that to life had entwined him; Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long will his love stay behind him.

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, When they promise a glorious morrow; They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West, From her own loved island of sorrow.

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]

"AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT"

At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye; And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there, And tell me our love is remembered even in the sky.

Then I sing the wild song 'twas once such rapture to hear, When our voices commingling breathed like one on the ear; And, as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls, I think, O my love! 'tis thy voice from the Kingdom of Souls Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]

ON A PICTURE BY POUSSIN REPRESENTING SHEPHERDS IN ARCADIA

Ah, happy youths, ah, happy maid, Snatch present pleasure while ye may; Laugh, dance, and sing in sunny glade, Your limbs are light, your hearts are gay; Ye little think there comes a day ('Twill come to you, it came to me) When love and life shall pass away: I, too, once dwelt in Arcady.

Or listless lie by yonder stream, And muse and watch the ripples play, Or note their noiseless flow, and deem That life thus gently glides away - That love is but a sunny ray To make our years go smiling by. I knew that stream, I too could dream, I, too, once dwelt in Arcady.

Sing, shepherds, sing; sweet lady, listen; Sing to the music of the rill, With happy tears her bright eyes glisten, For, as each pause the echoes fill, They waft her name from hill to hill - So listened my lost love to me, The voice she loved has long been still; I, too, once dwelt in Arcady.

John Addington Symonds [1840-1893]

THRENODY

There's a grass-grown road from the valley - A winding road and steep - That leads to the quiet hill-top, Where lies your love asleep. . . . While mine is lying, God knows where, A hundred fathoms deep.

I saw you kneel at a grave-side - How still a grave can be, Wrapped in the tender starlight, Far from the moaning sea! But through all dreams and starlight, The breakers call to me.

Oh, steep is your way to Silence - But steeper the ways I roam, For never a road can take me Beyond the wind and foam, And never a road can reach him Who lies so far from home.

Ruth Guthrie Harding [1882-

STRONG AS DEATH

O death, when thou shalt come to me From out thy dark, where she is now, Come not with graveyard smell on thee, Or withered roses on thy brow.

Come not, O Death, with hollow tone, And soundless step, and clammy hand - Lo, I am now no less alone Than in thy desolate, doubtful land;

But with that sweet arid subtle scent That ever clung about her (such As with all things she brushed was blent); And with her quick and tender touch.

With the dim gold that lit her hair, Crown thyself, Death; let fall thy tread So light that I may dream her there, And turn upon my dying bed.

And through my chilling veins shall flame My love, as though beneath her breath; And in her voice but call my name, And I will follow thee, O Death.

Henry Cuyler Bunner [1855-1896]

"I SHALL NOT CRY RETURN"

I shall not cry Return! Return! Nor weep my years away; But just as long as sunsets burn, And dawns make no delay, I shall be lonesome - I shall miss Your hand, your voice, your smile, your kiss.

Not often shall I speak your name, For what would strangers care That once a sudden tempest came And swept my gardens bare, And then you passed, and in your place Stood Silence with her lifted face.

Not always shall this parting be, For though I travel slow, I, too, may claim eternity And find the way you go; And so I do my task and wait The opening of the outer gate.

Ellen M. H. Gates [1835-1920]

"OH! SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM"

Oh! snatched away in beauty's bloom, On thee shall press no ponderous tomb; But on thy turf shall roses rear Their leaves, the earliest of the year; And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:

And oft by yon blue gushing stream Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, And feed deep thought with many a dream, And lingering pause and lightly tread; Fond wretch! as if her step disturbed the dead!

Away! we know that tears are vain, That Death nor heeds nor hears distress: Will this unteach us to complain? Or make one mourner weep the less? And thou, - who tell'st me to forget, Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.

George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]

TO MARY

If I had thought thou couldst have died, I might not weep for thee; But I forgot, when by thy side, That thou couldst mortal be: It never through my mind had passed The time would e'er be o'er, And I on thee should look my last, And thou shouldst smile no more!

And still upon that face I look, And think 'twill smile again; And still the thought I will not brook, That I must look in vain. But when I speak - thou dost not say What thou ne'er left'st unsaid; And now I feel, as well I may, Sweet Mary, thou art dead!

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art, All cold and all serene, I still might press thy silent heart, And where thy smiles have been. While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have, Thou seemest still mine own; But there I lay thee in thy grave, - And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art, Thou hast forgotten me; And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart In thinking, too, of thee; Yet there was round thee such a dawn Of light ne'er seen before, As fancy never could have drawn, And never can restore!

Charles Wolfe [1791-1823]

MY HEART AND I

Enough! we're tired, my heart and I. We sit beside the headstone thus, And wish that name were carved for us. The moss reprints more tenderly The hard types of the mason's knife, As Heaven's sweet life renews earth's life With which we're tired, my heart and I.

You see we're tired, my heart and I. We dealt with books, we trusted men, And in our own blood drenched the pen, As if such colors could not fly. We walked too straight for fortune's end, We loved too true to keep a friend; At last we're tired, my heart and I.

How tired we feel, my heart and I We seem of no use in the world; Our fancies hang gray and uncurled About men's eyes indifferently; Our voice which thrilled you so, will let You sleep; our tears are only wet: What do we here, my heart and I?

So tired, so tired, my heart and I! It was not thus in that old time When Ralph sat with me 'neath the lime To watch the sunset from the sky. "Dear love, you're looking tired," he said: I, smiling at him, shook my head. 'Tis now we're tired, my heart and I.

So tired, so tired, my heart and I! Though now none takes me on his arm To fold me close and kiss me warm Till each quick breath end in a sigh Of happy languor. Now, alone, We lean upon this graveyard stone, Uncheered, unkissed, my heart and I.

Tired out we are, my heart and I. Suppose the world brought diadems To tempt us, crusted with loose gems Of powers and pleasures? Let it try. We scarcely care to look at even A pretty child, or God's blue heaven, We feel so tired, my heart and I.

Yet who complains? My heart and I? In this abundant earth no doubt Is little room for things worn out: Disdain them, break them, throw them by! And if before the days grew rough We once were loved, used, - well enough, I think, we've fared, my heart and I.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]

ROSALIND'S SCROLL From "The Poet's Vow"

I left thee last, a child at heart, A woman scarce in years: I come to thee, a solemn corpse Which neither feels nor fears. I have no breath to use in sighs; They laid the dead-weights on mine eyes To seal them safe from tears.

Look on me with thine own calm look: I meet it calm as thou. No look of thine can change this smile, Or break thy sinful vow: I tell thee that my poor scorned heart Is of thine earth - thine earth, a part: It cannot vex thee now.

But out, alas! these words are writ By a living, loving one, Adown whose cheeks the proofs of life, The warm quick tears do run: Ah, let the unloving corpse control Thy scorn back from the loving soul Whose place of rest is won.

I have prayed for thee with bursting sob When passion's course was free; I have prayed for thee with silent lips In the anguish none could see; They whispered oft, "She sleepeth soft" - But I only prayed for thee.

Go to! I pray for thee no more: The corpse's tongue is still; Its folded fingers point to heaven, But point there stiff and chill: No farther wrong, no farther woe Hath license from the sin below Its tranquil heart to thrill.

I charge thee, by the living's prayer, And the dead's silentness, To wring from out thy soul a cry Which God shall hear and bless! Lest Heaven's own palm droop in my hand, And pale among the saints I stand, A saint companionless.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT

I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, Where we sat side by side On a bright May mornin' long ago, When first you were my bride. The corn was springin' fresh and green, And the lark sang loud and high, And the red was on your lip, Mary, And the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary, The day is bright as then, The lark's loud song is in my ear, And the corn is green again; But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, And your breath, warm on my cheek: And I still keep list'nin' for the words You never more will speak.

'Tis but a step down yonder lane, And the little church stands near - The church where we were wed, Mary; I see the spire from here. But the graveyard lies between, Mary, And my step might break your rest - For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary, For the poor make no new friends; But, oh! they love the better still The few our Father sends. And you were all I had, Mary, My blessin' and my pride: There's nothin' left to care for now, Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, That still kept hoping on, When the trust in God had left my soul, And my arm's young strength was gone; There was comfort ever on your lip, And the kind look on your brow - I bless you, Mary, for that same, Though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile When your heart was fit to break, When the hunger pain was gnawin' there, And you hid it for my sake; I bless you for the pleasant word, When your heart was sad and sore - Oh! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, Where grief can't reach you more!

I'm biddin' you a long farewell, My Mary - kind and true! But I'll not forget you, darling, In the land I'm goin' to: They say there's bread and work for all, And the sun shines always there, But I'll not forget old Ireland, Were it fifty times as fair!

And often in those grand old woods I'll sit, and shut my eyes, And my heart will travel back again To the place where Mary lies; And I'll think I see the little stile Where we sat side by side, And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn, When first you were my bride.

Helen Selina Sheridan [1807-1867]

THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE

Word was brought to the Danish king (Hurry!) That the love of his heart lay suffering, And pined for the comfort his voice would bring; (O, ride as though you were flying!) Better he loves each golden curl On the brow of that Scandinavian girl Than his rich crown jewels of ruby and pearl: And his rose of the isles is dying!

Thirty nobles saddled with speed; (Hurry!) Each one mounting a gallant steed Which he kept for battle and days of need; (O, ride as though you were flying!) Spurs were struck in the foaming flank; Worn-out chargers staggered and sank; Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst; But ride as they would, the king rode first, For his rose of the isles lay dying!

His nobles are beaten, one by one; (Hurry!) They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone; His little fair page now follows alone, For strength and for courage trying! The king looked back at that faithful child; Wan was the face that answering smiled; They passed the drawbridge with clattering din, Then he dropped; and only the king rode in Where his rose of the isles lay dying!

The king blew a blast on his bugle horn; (Silence!) No answer came; but faint and forlorn An echo returned on the cold gray morn, Like the breath of a spirit sighing. The castle portal stood grimly wide; None welcomed the king from that weary ride; For dead, in the light of the dawning day, The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay, Who had yearned for his voice while dying!

The panting steed, with a drooping crest, Stood weary. The king returned from her chamber of rest, The thick sobs choking in his breast; And, that dumb companion eyeing, The tears gushed forth which he strove to check; He bowed his head on his charger's neck: "O steed, that every nerve didst strain, Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain To the halls where my love lay dying!"

Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton [1808-1870]

THE WATCHER

A rose for a young head, A ring for a bride, Joy for the homestead Clean and wide - Who's that waiting In the rain outside?

A heart for an old friend, A hand for the new: Love can to earth lend Heaven's hue - Who's that standing In the silver dew?

A smile for the parting, A tear as they go, God's sweethearting Ends just so - Who's that watching Where the black winds blow?

He who is waiting In the rain outside, He who is standing Where the dew drops wide, He who is watching In the wind must ride (Though the pale hands cling) With the rose And the ring And the bride, Must ride With the red of the rose, And the gold of the ring, And the lips and the hair of the bride.

James Stephens [1882-

THE THREE SISTERS

Gone are those three, those sisters rare With wonder-lips and eyes ashine. One was wise and one was fair, And one was mine.

Ye mourners, weave for the sleeping hair Of only two your ivy vine. For one was wise and one was fair, But one was mine.

Arthur Davison Ficke [1883-

BALLAD

He said: "The shadows darken down, The night is near at hand. Now who's the friend will follow me Into the sunless land?

"For I have vassals leal and true, And I have comrades kind, And wheresoe'er my soul shall speed, They will not stay behind."

He sought the brother young and blithe Who bore his spear and shield: "In the long chase you've followed me, And in the battle-field.

"Few vows you make; but true's your heart, And you with me will win." He said: "God speed you, brother mine, But I am next of kin."

He sought the friar, the gray old priest Who loved his father's board. The friar he turned him to the east And reverently adored.

He said: "A godless name you bear, A godless life you've led, And whoso wins along with you, His spirit shall have dread.

"Oh, hasten, get your guilty soul From every burden shriven; Yet you are bound for flame and dole, But I am bound for heaven."

He sought the lady bright and proud, Who sate at his right hand: "Make haste, O Love, to follow me Into the sunless land."

She said: "And pass you in your prime? Heaven give me days of cheer! And keep me from the sunless clime Many and many a year."

All heavily the sun sank down Among black clouds of fate. There came a woman fair and wan Unto the castle gate.

Through gazing vassals, idle serfs, So silently she sped! The winding staircase echoed not Unto her light, light tread.

His lady eyed her scornfully. She stood at his right hand; She said: "And I will follow you Into the sunless land.

"There is no expiation, none. A bitter load I bore: Now I shall love you nevermore, Never and nevermore.

"There is no touch or tone of yours Can make the old love wake." She said: "But I will follow you, Even for the old love's sake."

Oh, he has kissed her on the brow, He took her by the hand: Into the sunless land they went, Into the starless land.

May Kendall [1861-

"O THAT 'TWERE POSSIBLE" From "Maud"

O that 'twere possible After long grief and pain To find the arms of my true love Round me once again!

When I was wont to meet her In the silent moody places Of the land that gave me birth, We stood tranced in long embraces Mixed with kisses sweeter, sweeter Than anything on earth.

A shadow flits before me, Not thou, but like to thee. Ah, Christ, that it were possible For one short hour to see The souls we loved, that they might tell us What and where they be!

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

"HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR DEAD" From "The Princess"

Home they brought her warrior dead; She nor swooned, nor uttered cry. All her maidens, watching, said, "She must weep or she will die."

Then they praised him, soft and low, Called him worthy to be loved, Truest friend and noblest foe; Yet she neither spoke nor moved.

Stole a maiden from her place, Lightly to the warrior stepped, Took the face-cloth from the face; Yet she neither moved nor wept.

Rose a nurse of ninety years, Set his child upon her knee, - Like summer tempest came her tears, "Sweet my child, I live for thee."

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

EVELYN HOPE

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead! Sit and watch by her side an hour. That is her book-shelf, this her bed; She plucked that piece of geranium-flower, Beginning to die too, in the glass. Little has yet been changed, I think: The shutters are shut, no light may pass Save two long rays through the hinge's chink.

Sixteen years old when she died! Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name; It was not her time to love; beside, Her life had many a hope and aim, Duties enough and little cares, And now was quiet, now astir, Till God's hand beckoned unawares, - And the sweet white brow is all of her.

Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope? What, your soul was pure and true, The good stars met in your horoscope, Made you of spirit, fire, and dew - And, just because I was thrice as old, And our paths in the world diverged so wide, Each was naught to each, must I be told? We were fellow mortals, naught beside?

No, indeed! for God above Is great to grant, as mighty to make, And creates the love to reward the love: I claim you still, for my own love's sake! Delayed, it may be, for more lives yet, Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few: Much is to learn, much to forget Ere the time be come for taking you.

But the time will come, - at last it will, When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall say) In the lower earth, in the years long still, That body and soul so pure and gay? Why your hair was amber, I shall divine, And your mouth of your own geranium's red, - And what you would do with me, in fine, In the new life come in the old one's stead.

I have lived (I shall say) so much since then, Given up myself so many times, Gained me the gains of various men, Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes; Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope, Either I missed or itself missed me: And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope! What is the issue? let us see!

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while! My heart seemed full as it could hold; There was place and to spare for the frank young smile, And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold. So, hush, - I will give you this leaf to keep: See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold hand! There, that is our secret: go to sleep! You will wake, and remember, and understand.

Robert Browning [1812-1889]

REMEMBRANCE

Cold in the earth - and the deep snow piled above thee, Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave! Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee, Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave?

Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover Over the mountains, on that northern shore, Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover Thy noble heart for ever, ever more?

Cold in the earth - and fifteen wild Decembers, From those brown hills, have melted into spring: Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers After such years of change and suffering!

Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee, While the world's tide is bearing me along; Other desires and other hopes beset me, Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!

No later light has lightened up my heaven, No second morn has ever shone for me; All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given, All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.

But, when the days of golden dreams had perished, And even Despair was powerless to destroy; Then did I learn how existence could be cherished, Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy.

Then did I check the tears of useless passion - Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine; Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten Down to that tomb already more than mine.

And, even yet, I dare not let it languish, Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain; Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish, How could I seek the empty world again?

Emily Bronte [1818-1848]

SONG

The linnet in the rocky dells, The moor-lark in the air, The bee among the heather bells That hide my lady fair:

The wild deer browse above her breast; The wild birds raise their brood; And they, her smiles of love caressed, Have left her solitude.

I ween that, when the grave's dark wall Did first her form retain, They thought their hearts could ne'er recall The light of joy again.

They thought the tide of grief would flow Unchecked through future years; But where is all their anguish now, And where are all their tears?

Well, let them fight for honor's breath, Or pleasure's shade pursue: The dweller in the land of death Is changed and careless too.

And, if their eyes should watch and weep Till sorrow's source were dry, She would not, in her tranquil sleep, Return a single sigh.

Blow, west-wind, by the lonely mound, And murmur, summer streams! There is no need of other sound To soothe my lady's dreams.

Emily Bronte [1818-1848]

SONG OF THE OLD LOVE From "Supper at the Mill"

When sparrows build, and the leaves break forth, My old sorrow wakes and cries, For I know there is dawn in the far, far north, And a scarlet sun doth rise; Like a scarlet fleece the snow-field spreads, And the icy founts run free, And the bergs begin to bow their heads, And plunge, and sail in the sea.

O my lost love, and my own, own love, And my love that loved me so! Is there never a chink in the world above Where they listen for words from below? Nay, I spoke once, and I grieved thee sore, I remember all that I said, And now thou wilt hear me no more - no more Till the sea gives up her dead.

Thou didst set thy foot on the ship, and sail To the ice-fields and the snow; Thou wert sad, for thy love did naught avail, And the end I could not know; How could I tell I should love thee to-day, Whom that day I held not dear? How could I know I should love thee away When I did not love thee anear?

We shall walk no more through the sodden plain With the faded bents o'erspread, We shall stand no more by the seething main While the dark wrack drives o'erhead; We shall part no more in the wind and the rain, Where thy last farewell was said; But perhaps I shall meet thee and know thee again When the sea gives up her dead.

Jean Ingelow [1820-1897]

REQUIESCAT

Strew on her roses, roses, And never a spray of yew! In quiet she reposes: Ah! would that I did too.

Her mirth the world required: She bathed it in smiles of glee. But her heart was tired, tired, And now they let her be.

Her life was turning, turning, In mazes of heat and sound. But for peace her soul was yearning, And now peace laps her round.

Her cabined, ample Spirit, It fluttered and failed for breath. To-night it doth inherit The vasty hall of Death.

Matthew Arnold [1822-1888]

TOO LATE "DOWGLAS, DOWGLAS, TENDIR AND TREU"

Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas, In the old likeness that I knew, I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

Never a scornful word should grieve ye, I'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do: Sweet as your smile on me shone ever, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

Oh, to call back the days that are not! My eyes were blinded, your words were few: Do you know the truth now, up in heaven, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true?

I never was worthy of you, Douglas; Not half worthy the like of you: Now all men beside seem to me like shadows - I love you, Douglas, tender and true.

Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas, Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew; As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true!

Dinah Maria Mulock Craik [1826-1887]

FOUR YEARS

At the Midsummer, when the hay was down, Said I mournful - Though my life be in its prime, Bare lie my meadows all shorn before their time, O'er my sere woodlands the leaves are turning brown; It is the hot Midsummer, when the hay is down.

At the Midsummer, when the hay was down, Stood she by the brooklet, young and very fair, With the first white bindweed twisted in her hair - Hair that drooped like birch-boughs, all in her simple gown - That eve in high Midsummer, when the hay was down.

At the Midsummer, when the hay was down, Crept she a willing bride close into my breast; Low-piled the thunder-clouds had sunk into the west, Red-eyed the sun out-glared like knight from leaguered town; It was the high Midsummer, and the sun was down.

It is Midsummer - all the hay is down, Close to her forehead press I dying eyes, Praying God shield her till we meet in Paradise, Bless her in love's name who was my joy and crown, And I go at Midsummer, when the hay is down.

Dinah Maria Mulock Craik [1826-1887]

BARBARA

On the Sabbath-day, Through the churchyard old and gray, Over the crisp and yellow leaves, I held my rustling way; And amid the words of mercy, falling on my soul like balms; 'Mid the gorgeous storms of music - in the mellow organ calms, 'Mid the upward streaming prayers, and the rich and solemn psalms, I stood careless, Barbara.

My heart was otherwhere While the organ shook the air, And the priest, with outspread hands, blessed the people with a prayer; But, when rising to go homeward, with a mild and saint-like shine Gleamed a face of airy beauty with its heavenly eyes on mine - Gleamed and vanished in a moment - O that face was surely thine Out of heaven, Barbara!

O pallid, pallid face! O earnest eyes of grace! When last I saw thee, dearest, it was in another place. You came running forth to meet me with my love-gift on your wrist: The flutter of a long white dress, then all was lost in mist - A purple stain of agony was on the mouth I kissed, That wild morning, Barbara!

I searched in my despair, Sunny noon and midnight air; I could not drive away the thought that you were lingering there. O many and many a winter night I sat when you were gone, My worn face buried in my hands, beside the fire alone. Within the dripping churchyard, the rain plashing on your stone, You were sleeping, Barbara.

'Mong angels, do you think Of the precious golden link I clasped around your happy arm while sitting by yon brink? Or when that night of gliding dance, of laughter and guitars, Was emptied of its music, and we watched, through lattice-bars, The silent midnight heaven creeping o'er us with its stars, Till the day broke, Barbara?

In the years I've changed; Wild and far my heart has ranged, And many sins and errors now have been on me avenged; But to you I have been faithful, whatsoever good I lacked: I loved you, and above my life still hangs that love intact - Your love the trembling rainbow, I the reckless cataract. Still I love you, Barbara!

Yet, love, I am unblest; With many doubts oppressed, I wander like a desert wind, without a place of rest. Could I but win you for an hour from off that starry shore, The hunger of my soul were stilled, for Death hath told you more Than the melancholy world doth know; things deeper than all lore Will you teach me, Barbara?

In vain, in vain, in vain! You will never come again. There droops upon the dreary hills a mournful fringe of rain; The gloaming closes slowly round, loud winds are in the tree, Round selfish shores for ever moans the hurt and wounded sea, There is no rest upon the earth, peace is with Death and thee, Barbara!

Alexander Smith [1830-1867]

SONG

When I am dead, my dearest. Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress-tree: Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops wet; And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain; I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on, as if in pain: And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember And haply may forget.

Christina Georgina Rossetti [1830-1894]

SARRAZINE'S SONG TO HER DEAD LOVER From "Chaitivel"

Hath any loved you well, down there, Summer or winter through? Down there, have you found any fair Laid in the grave with you? Is death's long kiss a richer kiss Than mine was wont to be - Or have you gone to some far bliss And quite forgotten me?

What soft enamoring of sleep Hath you in some soft way? What charmed death holdeth you with deep Strange lure by night and day? - A little space below the grass, Out of the sun and shade; But worlds away from me, alas, Down there where you are laid?

My bright hair's waved and wasted gold, What is it now to thee - Whether the rose-red life I hold Or white death holdeth me? Down there you love the grave's own green, And evermore you rave Of some sweet seraph you have seen Or dreamt of in the grave.

There you shall lie as you have lain, Though in the world above, Another life you live again, Loving again your love: Is it not sweet beneath the palm? Is not the warm day rife With some long mystic golden calm Better than love and life?

The broad quaint odorous leaves like hands Weaving the fair day through, Weave sleep no burnished bird withstands, While death weaves sleep for you; And many a strange rich breathing sound Ravishes morn and noon: And in that place you must have found Death a delicious swoon.

Hold me no longer for a word I used to say or sing: Ah, long ago you must have heard So many a sweeter thing: For rich earth must have reached your heart And turned the faith to flowers; And warm wind stolen, part by part, Your soul through faithless hours.

And many a soft seed must have won Soil of some yielding thought, To bring a bloom up to the sun That else had ne'er been brought; And, doubtless, many a passionate hue Hath made that place more fair, Making some passionate part of you Faithless to me down there.

Arthur O'Shaughnessy [1844-1884]

LOVE AND DEATH

In the wild autumn weather, when the rain was on the sea, And the boughs sobbed together, Death came and spake to me: "Those red drops of thy heart I have come to take from thee; As the storm sheds the rose, so thy love shall broken be," Said Death to me.

Then I stood straight and fearless while the rain was in the wave, And I spake low and tearless: "When thou hast made my grave, Those red drops from my heart then thou shalt surely have; But the rose keeps its bloom, as I my love will save All for my grave."

In the wild autumn weather a dread sword slipped from its sheath; While the boughs sobbed together, I fought a fight with Death, And I vanquished him with prayer, and I vanquished him by faith: Now the summer air is sweet with the rose's fragrant breath That conquered Death.

Rosa Mulholland [18 -1921]

TO ONE IN PARADISE

Thou wast all that to me, love, For which my soul did pine: A green isle in the sea, love, A fountain and a shrine All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers, And all the flowers were mine.

Ah, dream too bright to last! Ah, starry Hope, that didst arise But to be overcast! A voice from out of the Future cries, "On! on!" - but o'er the Past (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies Mute, motionless, aghast.

For, alas! alas! with me The light of Life is o'er! No more - no more - no more - (Such language holds the solemn sea To the sands upon the shore) Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree, Or the stricken eagle soar.

And all my days are trances, And all my nightly dreams Are where thy dark eye glances, And where thy footstep gleams - In what ethereal dances, By what eternal streams.

Edgar Allan Poe [1809-1849]

ANNABEL LEE

It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea, But we loved with a love that was more than love, I and my Annabel Lee; With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsmen came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulcher In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me; Yes! that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we, Of many far wiser than we; And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling - my darling - my life and my bride, In the sepulcher there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Edgar Allan Poe [1809-1849]

FOR ANNIE

Thank Heaven! the crisis - The danger is past, And the lingering illness Is over at last - And the fever called "Living" Is conquered at last.

Sadly, I know I am shorn of my strength, And no muscle I move As I lie at full length: But no matter - I feel I am better at length.

And I rest so composedly Now, in my bed, That any beholder Might fancy me dead - Might start at beholding me, Thinking me dead.

The moaning and groaning, The sighing and sobbing, Are quieted now, With that horrible throbbing At heart - ah, that horrible, Horrible throbbing!

The sickness - the nausea - The pitiless pain - Have ceased, with the fever That maddened my brain - With the fever called "Living" That burned in my brain.

And O! of all tortures That torture the worst Has abated - the terrible Torture of thirst For the naphthaline river Of Passion accurst - I have drunk of a water That quenches all thirst,

- Of a water that flows, With a lullaby sound, From a spring but a very few Feet under ground - From a cavern not very far Down under ground.

And ah! let it never Be foolishly said That my room it is gloomy, And narrow my bed; For man never slept In a different bed - And, to sleep, you must slumber In just such a bed.

My tantalized spirit Here blandly reposes, Forgetting, or never Regretting, its roses - Its old agitations Of myrtles and roses:

For now, while so quietly Lying, it fancies A holier odor About it, of pansies - A rosemary odor, Commingled with pansies - With rue and the beautiful Puritan pansies.

And so it lies happily, Bathing in many A dream of the truth And the beauty of Annie - Drowned in a bath Of the tresses of Annie.

She tenderly kissed me, She fondly caressed, And then I fell gently To sleep on her breast - Deeply to sleep From the heaven of her breast.

When the light was extinguished, She covered me warm, And she prayed to the angels To keep me from harm - To the queen of the angels To shield me from harm.

And I lie so composedly, Now, in my bed (Knowing her love), That you fancy me dead - And I rest so contentedly, Now, in my bed (With her love at my breast), That you fancy me dead - That you shudder to look at me, Thinking me dead.

But my heart it is brighter Than all of the many Stars in the sky, For it sparkles with Annie - It glows with the light Of the love of my Annie - With the thought, of the light Of the eyes of my Annie.

Edgar Allan Poe [1809-1849]

TELLING THE BEES

Here is the place; right over the hill Runs the path I took; You can see the gap in the old wall still, And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook.

There is the house, with the gate red-barred, And the poplars tall; And the barn's brown length, and the cattle-yard, And the white horns tossing above the wall.

There are the beehives ranged in the sun; And down by the brink Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o'errun, Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink.

A year has gone, as the tortoise goes, Heavy and slow; And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows, And the same brook sings of a year ago.

There's the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze; And the June sun warm Tangles his wings of fire in the trees, Setting, as then, over Fernside farm.

I mind me how with a lover's care From my Sunday coat I brushed off the burrs, and smoothed my hair, And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat.

Since we parted, a month had passed, - To love, a year; Down through the beeches I looked at last On the little red gate and the well-sweep near.

I can see it all now, - the slantwise rain Of light through the leaves, The sundown's blaze on her window-pane, The bloom of her roses under the eaves.

Just the same as a month before, - The house and the trees, The barn's brown gable, the vine by the door, - Nothing changed but the hives of bees.

Before them, under the garden wall, Forward and back, Went drearily singing the chore-girl small, Draping each hive with a shred of black.

Trembling, I listened: the summer sun Had the chill of snow; For I knew she was telling the bees of one Gone on the journey we all must go!

Then I said to myself, "My Mary weeps For the dead to-day: Haply her blind old grandsire sleeps The fret and the pain of his age away."

But her dog whined low; on the doorway sill With his cane to his chin, The old man sat; and the chore-girl still Sung to the bees stealing out and in.

And the song she was singing ever since In my ears sounds on: - "Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence! Mistress Mary is dead and gone!"

John Greenleaf Whittier [1807-1892]

A TRYST

I will not break the tryst, my dear, That we have kept so long, Though winter and its snows are here, And I've no heart for song.

You went into the voiceless night; Your path led far away. Did you forget me, Heart's Delight, As night forgets the day?

Sometimes I think that you would speak If still you held me dear; But space is vast, and I am weak - Perchance I do not hear.

Surely, howe'er remote the star Your wandering feet may tread, When I shall pass the sundering bar Our souls must still be wed.

Louise Chandler Moulton [1835-1908]

LOVE'S RESURRECTION DAY

Round among the quiet graves, When the sun was low, Love went grieving, - Love who saves: Did the sleepers know?

At his touch the flowers awoke, At his tender call Birds into sweet singing broke, And it did befall

From the blooming, bursting sod All Love's dead arose, And went flying up to God By a way Love knows.

Louise Chandler Moulton [1835-1908]

HEAVEN

Only to find Forever, blest By thine encircling arm; Only to lie beyond unrest In passion's dreamy calm!

Only to meet and never part, To sleep and never wake, - Heart unto heart and soul to soul, Dead for each other's sake.

Martha Gilbert Dickinson [18 -

JANETTE'S HAIR

Oh, loosen the snood that you wear, Janette, Let me tangle a hand in your hair - my pet; For the world to me had no daintier sight Than your brown hair veiling your shoulders white; Your beautiful dark brown hair - my pet.

It was brown with a golden gloss, Janette, It was finer than silk of the floss - my pet; 'Twas a beautiful mist falling down to your wrist, 'Twas a thing to be braided, and jewelled, and kissed - 'Twas the loveliest hair in the world - my pet.

My arm was the arm of a clown, Janette, It was sinewy, bristled, and brown - my pet; But warmly and softly it loved to caress Your round white neck and your wealth of tress, Your beautiful plenty of hair - my pet.

Your eyes had a swimming glory, Janette. Revealing the old, dear story - my pet; They were gray with that chastened tinge of the sky When the trout leaps quickest to snap the fly, And they matched with your golden hair - my pet.

Your lips - but I have no words, Janette - They were fresh as the twitter of birds - my pet, When the spring is young, and the roses are wet, With the dewdrops in each red bosom set, And they suited your gold brown hair - my pet.

Oh, you tangled my life in your hair, Janette, 'Twas a silken and golden snare - my pet; But, so gentle the bondage, my soul did implore The right to continue your slave evermore, With my fingers enmeshed in your hair - my pet.

Thus ever I dream what you were, Janette, With your lips, and your eyes, and your hair - my pet, In the darkness of desolate years I moan, And my tears fall bitterly over the stone That covers your golden hair - my pet.

Charles Graham Halpine [1829-1868]

THE DYING LOVER

The grass that is under me now Will soon be over me, Sweet; When you walk this way again I shall not hear your feet.

You may walk this way again, And shed your tears like dew; They will be no more to me then Than mine are now to you!

Richard Henry Stoddard [1825-1903]

"WHEN THE GRASS SHALL COVER ME"

When the grass shall cover me, Head to foot where I am lying; When not any wind that blows, Summer blooms nor winter snows, Shall awake me to your sighing: Close above me as you pass, You will say, "How kind she was," You will say, "How true she was," When the grass grows over me.

When the grass shall cover me, Holden close to earth's warm bosom, - While I laugh, or weep, or sing, Nevermore, for anything, You will find in blade and blossom, Sweet small voices, odorous, Tender pleaders in my cause, That shall speak me as I was - When the grass grows over me.

When the grass shall cover me! Ah, beloved, in my sorrow Very patient, I can wait, Knowing that, or soon or late, There will dawn a clearer morrow: When your heart will moan "Alas! Now I know how true she was; Now I know how dear she was" - When the grass grows over me!

Ina Donna Coolbrith [1842-1928]

GIVE LOVE TO-DAY

When the lean, gray grasses Cover me, bury me deep, No sea wind that passes Shall break my sleep.

When you come, my lover, Sorrowful-eyed to me, Earth mine eyes will cover; I shall not see.

Though with sad words splendid, Praising, you call me dear, It will be all ended; I shall not hear.

You may live love's riot Laughingly over my head, But I shall lie quiet With the gray dead.

Love, you will not wake me With all your singing carouse. Nor your dancing shake me In my dark house.

Though you should go weeping, Sorrowful for my sake, Fain to break my sleeping, I could not wake.

Now, ere time destroy us - Shadows beneath and above; Death has no song joyous, Nor dead men love -

Now, while deep-eyed, golden, Love on the mountain sings, Let him be close holden; Fetter his wings.

Love, nor joy nor sorrow Troubles the end of day. Leave the Fates to-morrow; Give Love to-day.

Ethel Talbot [18 -

UNTIL DEATH

Make me no vows of constancy, dear friend, To love me, though I die, thy whole life long, And love no other till thy days shall end - Nay, it were rash and wrong.

If thou canst love another, be it so; I would not reach out of my quiet grave To bind thy heart, if it should choose to go - Love should not be a slave.

My placid ghost, I trust, will walk serene In clearer light than gilds those earthly morns, Above the jealousies and envies keen, Which sow this life with thorns.

Thou wouldst not feel my shadowy caress; If, after death, my soul should linger here; Men's hearts crave tangible, close tenderness, Love's presence, warm and near.

It would not make me sleep more peacefully That thou wert wasting all thy life in woe For my poor sake; what love thou hast for me, Bestow it ere I go.

Carve not upon a stone when I am dead The praises which remorseful mourners give To women's graves - a tardy recompense - But speak them while I live.

Heap not the heavy marble o'er my head To shut away the sunshine and the dew; Let small blooms grow there, and let grasses wave, And raindrops filter through.

Thou wilt meet many fairer and more gay Than I; but, trust me, thou canst never find One who will love and serve thee night and day With a more single mind.

Forget me when I die! The violets Above my breast will blossom just as blue, Nor miss thy tears; e'en nature's self forgets; But while I live, be true.

Elizabeth Akers [1832-1911]

FLORENCE VANE

I loved thee long and dearly, Florence Vane; My life's bright dream and early Hath come again; I renew in my fond vision, My heart's dear pain - My hopes, and thy derision, Florence Vane.

The ruin, lone and hoary, The ruin old, Where thou didst hark my story, At even told - That spot - the hues Elysian Of sky and plain - I treasure in my vision, Florence Vane.

Thou wast lovelier than the roses In their prime; Thy voice excelled the closes Of sweetest rhyme; Thy heart was as a river Without a main. Would I had loved thee never, Florence Vane!

But, fairest, coldest wonder! Thy glorious clay Lieth the green sod under - Alas, the day! And it boots not to remember Thy disdain, To quicken love's pale ember, Florence Vane.

The lilies of the valley By young graves weep; The daisies love to dally Where maidens sleep. May their bloom, in beauty vying, Never wane Where thine earthly part is lying, Florence Vane!

Philip Pendleton Cooke [1816-1850]

"IF SPIRITS WALK"

If spirits walk, love, when the night climbs slow The slant footpath where we were wont to go, Be sure that I shall take the selfsame way To the hill-crest, and shoreward, down the gray, Sheer, graveled slope, where vetches straggling grow. Look for me not when gusts of winter blow, When at thy pane beat hands of sleet and snow; I would not come thy dear eyes to affray, If spirits walk.

But when, in June, the pines are whispering low, And when their breath plays with thy bright hair so As some one's fingers once were used to play - That hour when birds leave song, and children pray, Keep the old tryst, sweetheart, and thou shalt know If spirits walk.

Sophie Jewett [1861-1909]

REQUIESCAT

Tread lightly, she is near, Under the snow; Speak gently, she can hear The daisies grow.

All her bright golden hair Tarnished with rust, She that was young and fair Fallen to dust.

Lily-like, white as snow, She hardly knew She was a woman, so Sweetly she grew.

Coffin-board, heavy stone, Lie on her breast; I vex my heart alone, She is at rest.

Peace, peace; she cannot hear Lyre or sonnet; All my life's buried here - Heap earth upon it.

Oscar Wilde [1856-1900]

LYRIC Ah, dans ces mornes sejours Les jamais sont les toujours. - Paul Verlaine

You would have understood me, had you waited; I could have loved you, dear! as well as he; Had we not been impatient, dear! and fated Always to disagree.

What is the use of speech? Silence were fitter: Lest we should still be wishing things unsaid. Though all the words we ever spake were bitter, Shall I reproach you dead?

Nay, let this earth, your portion, likewise cover All the old anger, setting us apart: Always, in all, in truth was I your lover; Always, I held your heart.

I have met other women who were tender, As you were cold, dear! with a grace as rare. Think you I turned to them, or made surrender, I who had found you fair?

Had we been patient, dear! ah, had you waited, I had fought death for you, better than he: But from the very first, dear! we, were fated Always to disagree.

Late, late, I come to you, now death discloses Love that in life was not to be our part: On your low-lying mound between the roses, Sadly I cast my heart.

I would not waken you: nay! this is fitter; Death and the darkness give you unto me; Here we who loved so, were so cold and bitter, Hardly can disagree.