O mark yon Rose-tree! When the WestBreathes on her with too warm a zest,She turns her cheek away;Yet if one moment he refrain,She turns her cheek to him again,And woos him still to stay!
Is she not like a maiden coyPress'd by some amorous-breathing boy?Tho' coy, she courts him too,Winding away her slender form,She will not have him woo so warm,And yet will have him woo!—George Darley
I loved her for that she was beautiful;And that to me she seem'd to be all Nature,And all varieties of things in one:Would set at night in clouds of tears, and riseAll light and laughter in the morning; fearNo petty customs nor appearances;But think what others only dream'd about;And say what others did but think; and doWhat others did but say; and glory inWhat others dared but do; so pure withalIn soul; in heart and act such conscious yetSuch perfect innocence, she made round herA halo of delight. 'Twas these which won me;—And that she never school'd within her breastOne thought or feeling, but gave holidayTo all; and that she made all even mineIn the communion of Love; and weGrew like each other, for we loved each other;She, mild and generous as the air in Spring;And I, like Earth all budding out with love.—Philip James Bailey
Celia, confess 'tis all in vainTo patch the ruins of thy face;Nor of ill-natur'd time complain,That robs it of each blooming grace.
If love no more shall bend his bow,Nor point his arrows from thine eye,If no lac'd fop, nor feathered beau,Despairing at thy feet shall die.
Yet still, my charmer, wit like thineShall triumph over age and fate;Thy setting beams with lustre shine,And rival their meridian height.
Beauty, fair flower! soon fades away,And transient are the joys of love;But wit, and virtue ne'er decay,Ador'd below, and bless'd above.—William Somerville
Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing,Lovely wee thing, wast thou mine,I wad wear thee in my bosom,Lest my jewel I should tine.
Wishfully I look and languishIn that bonnie face o' thine;And my heart it stounds wi' anguish,Lest my wee thing be na mine.
Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty,In ae constellation shine;To adore thee is my duty,Goddess o' this sould of mine.—Robert Burns
Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font;The firefly wakens: waken thou with me.Now droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost,And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.
Now lies the Earth all Danaë to the stars,And all thy heart lies open unto me.
Now slides the silent meteor on, and leavesA shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.
Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,And slips into the bosom of the lake:So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slipInto my bosom and be lost in me.—Alfred Tennyson
She is not fair to outward viewAs many maidens be;Her loveliness I never knewUntil she smiled on me;O, then I saw her eye was bright,A well of love, a spring of light!
But now her looks are coy and cold,To mine they ne'er reply,And yet I cease not to beholdThe love-light in her eye:Her very frowns are fairer farThan smiles of other maidens are.—Hartley Coleridge
Fair maid, had I not heard thy baby cries,Nor seen thy girlish, sweet vicissitude,Thy mazy motions, striving to elude,Yet wooing still a parent's watchful eyes,Thy humours, many as the opal's dyes,And lovely all;—methinks thy scornful mood,And bearing high of stately womanhood,—Thy brow, where Beauty sits to tyrannizeO'er humble love, had made me sadly fear thee;For never sure was seen a royal bride,Whose gentleness gave grace to so much pride—My very thoughts would tremble to be near thee:But when I see thee at thy father's side,Old times unqueen thee, and old loves endear thee.—Hartley Coleridge
It was not in the WinterOur loving lot was cast;It was the time of roses—We pluck'd them as we pass'd!
That churlish season never frown'dOn early lovers yet:O no—the world was newly crown'dWith flowers when first we met!
'Twas twilight, and I bade you goBut still you held me fast;It was the time of roses—We pluck'd them as we pass'd!—Thomas Hood
Thou hast beauty bright and fair,Manner noble, aspect free,Eyes that are untouch'd by care;What then do we ask from thee?Hermione, Hermione!
Thou hast reason quick and strong,Wit that envious men admire,And a voice, itself a song!What then can we still desire?Hermione, Hermione!
Something thou dost want, O queen!(As the gold doth ask alloy),Tears—amidst thy laughter seen,Pity—mingling with thy joy.This is all we ask from thee,Hermione, Hermione!—Bryan Waller Proctor
Fair the face of orient day,Fair the tints of op'ning rose;But fairer still my Delia dawns,More lovely far her beauty blows.
Sweet the lark's wild-warbled lay,Sweet the tinkling rill to hear;But, Delia, more delightful still,Steal thine accents on mine ear.
The flower-enamour'd busy beeThe rosy banquet loves to sip;Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapseTo the sun-brown'd Arab's lip.
But, Delia, on thy balmy lipsLet me, no vagrant insect, rove!O let me steal one liquid kiss!For oh! my soul is parch'd with love.—Robert Burns
The air which thy smooth voice doth break,Into my soul like lightning flies;My life retires while thou dost speak,And thy soft breath its room supplies.
Lost in this pleasing ecstasy,I join my trembling lips to thine,And back receive that life from theeWhich I so gladly did resign.
Forbear, Platonic fools! t'inquireWhat numbers do the soul compose;No harmony can life inspireBut that which from these accents flows.—Thomas Stanley
"In tea-cup times"! The style of dressWould meet your beauty, I confess;Belinda-like, the patch you'd wear;I picture you the powdered hair,—You'd make a charming Shepherdess!
And I—no doubt—could well expressSir Plume's complete conceitedness,—Could poise a clouded cane with care"In tea-cup times"!
The parts would fit precisely—yes;We should achieve a huge success!You should disdain, and I despair,With quite the true Augustan air;But ... could I love you more, or less,—"In tea-cup times"?—Austin Dobson
If you become a nun, dear,A friar I will be;In any cell you run, dear,Pray look behind for me.The roses all turn pale, too;The doves all take the veil, too;The blind will see the show.What! you become a nun, my dear?I'll not believe it, no!
If you become a nun, dear,The bishop Love will be;The Cupids every one, dear,Will chant "We trust in thee."The incense will go sighing,The candles fall a-dying,The water turn to wine;What! you go take the vows, my dear?You may—but they'll be mine!—Leigh Hunt
"Why should not Wattle doFor Mistletoe?Ask'd one—they were but two—Where wattles grow.
He was her lover, too,Who urged her so—"Why should not Wattle doFor Mistletoe?"
A rose-cheek rosier grew;Rose-lips breathed low—"Since it is here—and You—I hardly knowWhy Wattle should not do."—Douglas Brook Wheelton Sladen
There is a garden where liliesAnd roses are side by side;And all day between them in silenceThe silken butterflies glide.
I may not enter the garden,Tho' I know the road thereto;And morn by morn to the gatewayI see the children go.
They bring back light on their faces;But they cannot bring back to meWhat the lilies say to the roses,Or the songs of the butterflies be.—Francis Turner Palgrave
Designed and Printedin the Shop ofP. F. Volland CompanyChicago