The wind brings up the hawthorn's breath.The sweet airs ripple up the lake:My soul, my soul is sick to death,My heart, my heart is like to break.The sweet airs ripple up the lake,I hear the thin woods' fluttering:My heart, my heart is like to break;What part have I, alas! in spring?I hear the thin woods' fluttering;The brake is brimmed with linnet-song:What part have I, alas! in spring?For me, heart's winter is life-long.The brake is brimmed with linnet song;Clear carols flutter through the trees;For me heart's winter is life-long;I cast my sighs on every breeze.Clear carols flutter through the trees;The new year hovers like a dove:I cast my sighs on every breeze;Spring is no spring, forlorn of love.The new year hovers like a doveAbove the breast of the green earth:Spring is no spring, forlorn of love;Alike to me are death and birth.Above the breast of the green earthThe soft sky flutters like a flower:Alike to me are death and birth;I dig Love's grave in every hour.The soft sky flutters like a flowerAlong the glory of the hills:I dig Love's grave in every hour,I hear Love's dirge in all the rills.Along the glory of the hillsFlowers slope into a rim of gold:I hear Love's dirge in all the rills;Sad singings haunt me as of old.Flowers slope into a rim of goldAlong the marges of the sky:Sad singings haunt me as of old;Shall Love come back to me to die?Along the marges of the skyThe birds wing homeward from the East:Shall Love come back to me to die?Shall Hope relive, once having ceas'd?The birds wing homeward from the East;I smell spice-breaths upon the air:Shall Hope relive, once having ceas'd?It would lie black on my despair.I smell spice-breaths upon the air;The golden Orient savours pass:Hope would lie black on my despair,Like a moon-shadow on the grass.The golden Orient savours pass:The full spring throbs in all the shade:Like a moon-shadow on the grass,My hope into the dusk would fade.The full spring throbs in all the shade;We shall have roses soon, I trow;My hope into the dusk would fade;Bring lilies on Love's grave to strow.We shall have roses soon I trow;Soon will the rich red poppies burn:Bring lilies on Love's grave to strow:My hope is fled beyond return.Soon will the rich red poppies burn;Soon will blue iris star the stream:My hope is fled beyond return;Have my eyes tears for my waste dream?Soon will blue iris star the stream;Summer will turn the air to wine:Have my eyes tears for my waste dream?Can songs come from these lips of mine?Summer will turn the air to wine,So full and sweet the mid-spring flowers:Can songs come from those lips of mine?My thoughts are grey as winter hours.So full and sweet the mid-spring flowers.The wind brings up the hawthorn's breath;My thoughts are grey as winter hours;My soul, my soul is sick to death.
The wind brings up the hawthorn's breath.The sweet airs ripple up the lake:My soul, my soul is sick to death,My heart, my heart is like to break.
The sweet airs ripple up the lake,I hear the thin woods' fluttering:My heart, my heart is like to break;What part have I, alas! in spring?
I hear the thin woods' fluttering;The brake is brimmed with linnet-song:What part have I, alas! in spring?For me, heart's winter is life-long.
The brake is brimmed with linnet song;Clear carols flutter through the trees;For me heart's winter is life-long;I cast my sighs on every breeze.
Clear carols flutter through the trees;The new year hovers like a dove:I cast my sighs on every breeze;Spring is no spring, forlorn of love.
The new year hovers like a doveAbove the breast of the green earth:Spring is no spring, forlorn of love;Alike to me are death and birth.
Above the breast of the green earthThe soft sky flutters like a flower:Alike to me are death and birth;I dig Love's grave in every hour.
The soft sky flutters like a flowerAlong the glory of the hills:I dig Love's grave in every hour,I hear Love's dirge in all the rills.
Along the glory of the hillsFlowers slope into a rim of gold:I hear Love's dirge in all the rills;Sad singings haunt me as of old.
Flowers slope into a rim of goldAlong the marges of the sky:Sad singings haunt me as of old;Shall Love come back to me to die?
Along the marges of the skyThe birds wing homeward from the East:Shall Love come back to me to die?Shall Hope relive, once having ceas'd?
The birds wing homeward from the East;I smell spice-breaths upon the air:Shall Hope relive, once having ceas'd?It would lie black on my despair.
I smell spice-breaths upon the air;The golden Orient savours pass:Hope would lie black on my despair,Like a moon-shadow on the grass.
The golden Orient savours pass:The full spring throbs in all the shade:Like a moon-shadow on the grass,My hope into the dusk would fade.
The full spring throbs in all the shade;We shall have roses soon, I trow;My hope into the dusk would fade;Bring lilies on Love's grave to strow.
We shall have roses soon I trow;Soon will the rich red poppies burn:Bring lilies on Love's grave to strow:My hope is fled beyond return.
Soon will the rich red poppies burn;Soon will blue iris star the stream:My hope is fled beyond return;Have my eyes tears for my waste dream?
Soon will blue iris star the stream;Summer will turn the air to wine:Have my eyes tears for my waste dream?Can songs come from these lips of mine?
Summer will turn the air to wine,So full and sweet the mid-spring flowers:Can songs come from those lips of mine?My thoughts are grey as winter hours.
So full and sweet the mid-spring flowers.The wind brings up the hawthorn's breath;My thoughts are grey as winter hours;My soul, my soul is sick to death.
John Payne.
(Pantoum.)
Here we are riding the rail,Gliding from out of the station;Man though I am, I am pale,Certain of heat and vexation.Gliding from out of the station,Out from the city we thrust;Certain of heat and vexation,Sure to be covered with dust.Out from the city we thrust:Rattling we run o'er the bridges:Sure to be covered with dust,Stung by a thousand of midges.Rattling we dash o'er the bridges,Rushing we dash o'er the plain;Stung by a thousand of midges,Certain precursors of rain.Rushing we dash o'er the plain,Watching the clouds darkly lowering,Certain precursors of rain:Fields about here need a showering.Watching the clouds darkly lowering,—Track here is high on a bank—Fields about here need a showering,Boy with the books needs a spank.Track here is high on a bank,Just by a wretched old hovel:Boy with the books needs a spank—"No! I don't want a new novel!"Just by a wretched old hovel,Small speck of dust in my eye."No! I don't want a new novel!"—Babies beginning to cry.—Small speck of dust in my eye,"I will not buy papers or candy!"—Babies beginning to cry—.Oh, for a tomahawk handy!"I will not buy papers or candy!"Train boys deserve to be slain;Oh, for a tomahawk handy!Oh, for the cool of the rain!Train boys deserve to be slain,Heat and the dust—they are chokingOh, for the cool of the rain!—"Gent" just behind me is joking.Heat and the dust, they are choking,Clogging and filling my pores;—"Gent" just behind me is joking,"Gent" just in front of me snores.Clogging and filling my pores,Ears are on edge at the rattle;"Gent" just in front of me snores,Sounds like the noise of a battle.Ears are on edge at the rattle,Man tho' I am, I am pale,Sounds like the noise of a battle,Here we are riding the rail.
Here we are riding the rail,Gliding from out of the station;Man though I am, I am pale,Certain of heat and vexation.
Gliding from out of the station,Out from the city we thrust;Certain of heat and vexation,Sure to be covered with dust.
Out from the city we thrust:Rattling we run o'er the bridges:Sure to be covered with dust,Stung by a thousand of midges.
Rattling we dash o'er the bridges,Rushing we dash o'er the plain;Stung by a thousand of midges,Certain precursors of rain.
Rushing we dash o'er the plain,Watching the clouds darkly lowering,Certain precursors of rain:Fields about here need a showering.
Watching the clouds darkly lowering,—Track here is high on a bank—Fields about here need a showering,Boy with the books needs a spank.
Track here is high on a bank,Just by a wretched old hovel:Boy with the books needs a spank—"No! I don't want a new novel!"
Just by a wretched old hovel,Small speck of dust in my eye."No! I don't want a new novel!"—Babies beginning to cry.—
Small speck of dust in my eye,"I will not buy papers or candy!"—Babies beginning to cry—.Oh, for a tomahawk handy!
"I will not buy papers or candy!"Train boys deserve to be slain;Oh, for a tomahawk handy!Oh, for the cool of the rain!
Train boys deserve to be slain,Heat and the dust—they are chokingOh, for the cool of the rain!—"Gent" just behind me is joking.
Heat and the dust, they are choking,Clogging and filling my pores;—"Gent" just behind me is joking,"Gent" just in front of me snores.
Clogging and filling my pores,Ears are on edge at the rattle;"Gent" just in front of me snores,Sounds like the noise of a battle.
Ears are on edge at the rattle,Man tho' I am, I am pale,Sounds like the noise of a battle,Here we are riding the rail.
Brander Matthews.
(Pantoum.)
She oped the portal of the palace,She stole into the garden's gloom;From every spotless snowy chaliceThe lilies breathed a sweet perfume.She stole into the garden's gloom,She thought that no one would discover;The lilies breathed a sweet perfume,She swiftly ran to meet her lover.She thought that no one would discover,But footsteps followed ever near;She swiftly ran to meet her loverBeside the fountain crystal clear.But footsteps followed ever near;Ah, who is that she sees before herBeside the fountain crystal clear?'Tis not her hazel-eyed adorer.Ah, who is that she sees before her,His hand upon his scimitar?'Tis not her hazel-eyed adorer,It is her lord of Candahar!His hand upon his scimitar—Alas, what brought such dread disaster!It is her lord of Candahar,The fierce Sultan, her lord and master.Alas, what brought such dread disaster!"Your pretty lover's dead!" he cries—The fierce Sultan, her lord and master—"'Neath yonder tree his body lies.""Your pretty lover's dead!" he cries—(A sudden, ringing voice behind him);"'Neath yonder tree his body lies—""Die, lying dog! go thou and find him!"A sudden, ringing voice behind him,A deadly blow, a moan of hate,"Die, lying dog! go thou and find him!Come, love, our steeds are at the gate!"A deadly blow, a moan of hate,His blood ran red as wine in chalice;"Come, love, our steeds are at the gate!"She oped the portal of the palace.
She oped the portal of the palace,She stole into the garden's gloom;From every spotless snowy chaliceThe lilies breathed a sweet perfume.
She stole into the garden's gloom,She thought that no one would discover;The lilies breathed a sweet perfume,She swiftly ran to meet her lover.
She thought that no one would discover,But footsteps followed ever near;She swiftly ran to meet her loverBeside the fountain crystal clear.
But footsteps followed ever near;Ah, who is that she sees before herBeside the fountain crystal clear?'Tis not her hazel-eyed adorer.
Ah, who is that she sees before her,His hand upon his scimitar?'Tis not her hazel-eyed adorer,It is her lord of Candahar!
His hand upon his scimitar—Alas, what brought such dread disaster!It is her lord of Candahar,The fierce Sultan, her lord and master.
Alas, what brought such dread disaster!"Your pretty lover's dead!" he cries—The fierce Sultan, her lord and master—"'Neath yonder tree his body lies."
"Your pretty lover's dead!" he cries—(A sudden, ringing voice behind him);"'Neath yonder tree his body lies—""Die, lying dog! go thou and find him!"
A sudden, ringing voice behind him,A deadly blow, a moan of hate,"Die, lying dog! go thou and find him!Come, love, our steeds are at the gate!"
A deadly blow, a moan of hate,His blood ran red as wine in chalice;"Come, love, our steeds are at the gate!"She oped the portal of the palace.
Clinton Scollard.
My soul is sick of nightingale and rose,The perfume and the darkness of the grove;I weary of the fevers and the throes,And all the enervating dreams of love.At morn I love to hear the lark, and roveThe meadows, where the simple daisy showsHer guiltless bosom to the skies above—My soul is sick of nightingale and rose.The afternoon is sweet, and sweet repose,But let me lie where breeze-blown branches move.I hate the stillness where the sunbeams doze,The perfume and the darkness of the grove.I love to hear at eve the gentle doveContented coo the day's delightful close.She sings of love and all the calm thereof,—I weary of the fevers and the throes.I love the night, who like a mother throwsHer arms round hearts that throbbed and limbs that strove,As kind as Death, that puts an end to woesAnd all the enervating dreams of love.Because my soul is sick of fancies woveOf fervid ecstasies and crimson glows;Because the taste of cinnamon and clovePalls on my palate—let no man supposeMy soul is sick.
My soul is sick of nightingale and rose,The perfume and the darkness of the grove;I weary of the fevers and the throes,And all the enervating dreams of love.
At morn I love to hear the lark, and roveThe meadows, where the simple daisy showsHer guiltless bosom to the skies above—My soul is sick of nightingale and rose.
The afternoon is sweet, and sweet repose,But let me lie where breeze-blown branches move.I hate the stillness where the sunbeams doze,The perfume and the darkness of the grove.
I love to hear at eve the gentle doveContented coo the day's delightful close.She sings of love and all the calm thereof,—I weary of the fevers and the throes.
I love the night, who like a mother throwsHer arms round hearts that throbbed and limbs that strove,As kind as Death, that puts an end to woesAnd all the enervating dreams of love.
Because my soul is sick of fancies woveOf fervid ecstasies and crimson glows;Because the taste of cinnamon and clovePalls on my palate—let no man supposeMy soul is sick.
Cosmo Monkhouse.
My day and night are in my lady's hand;I have no other sunrise than her sight;For me her favour glorifies the land;Her anger darkens all the cheerful light.Her face is fairer than the hawthorn white,When all a-flower in May the hedgerows stand;While she is kind, I know of no affright;My day and night are in my lady's hand.All heaven in her glorious eyes is spanned;Her smile is softer than the summer's night,Gladder than daybreak on the Faery strand;I have no other sunrise than her sight.Her silver speech is like the singing flightOf runnels rippling o'er the jewelled sand;Her kiss a dream of delicate delight;For me her favour glorifies the land.What if the Winter chase the Summer bland!The gold sun in her hair burns ever bright.If she be sad, straightway all joy is banned;Her anger darkens all the cheerful light.Come weal or woe, I am my lady's knightAnd in her service every ill withstand;Love is my Lord in all the world's despiteAnd holdeth in the hollow of his handMy day and night.
My day and night are in my lady's hand;I have no other sunrise than her sight;For me her favour glorifies the land;Her anger darkens all the cheerful light.
Her face is fairer than the hawthorn white,When all a-flower in May the hedgerows stand;While she is kind, I know of no affright;My day and night are in my lady's hand.
All heaven in her glorious eyes is spanned;Her smile is softer than the summer's night,Gladder than daybreak on the Faery strand;I have no other sunrise than her sight.
Her silver speech is like the singing flightOf runnels rippling o'er the jewelled sand;Her kiss a dream of delicate delight;For me her favour glorifies the land.
What if the Winter chase the Summer bland!The gold sun in her hair burns ever bright.If she be sad, straightway all joy is banned;Her anger darkens all the cheerful light.
Come weal or woe, I am my lady's knightAnd in her service every ill withstand;Love is my Lord in all the world's despiteAnd holdeth in the hollow of his handMy day and night.
John Payne.
(Rondeau Redoublé.)
O goddess sweet, give ear unto my prayer.Come with thy doves across the briny sea,Leave thy tall fanes and thy rose gardens rare,From cruel bondage set thy vot'ress free!Ah how my heart would joy again to beLike chirming bird that cleaves the sunny air,Like wildwood roe that bounds in ecstasy;O goddess sweet, give ear unto my prayer!That I am innocent hast thou no careOf crime against celestial deity?Must I the fate of lovely Lotis share?—Come with thy doves across the briny sea!I hear no waters' silvern melody,And yet the rippling water once was there,And on its bloomy banks I worshipped thee;—Leave thy tall fanes and thy rose gardens rare!Could I but feel my boy's hands on my hair,Could I but kiss my sister Iole,Then bravely would I cast forth chill despair,From cruel bondage set thy vot'ress free!I, who was once the blithesome Dryope,Am now a tree bole, cold and brown and bare;Pity, I pray, my ceaseless agony,Or grant forgetfulness of all things fair,O goddess sweet.
O goddess sweet, give ear unto my prayer.Come with thy doves across the briny sea,Leave thy tall fanes and thy rose gardens rare,From cruel bondage set thy vot'ress free!
Ah how my heart would joy again to beLike chirming bird that cleaves the sunny air,Like wildwood roe that bounds in ecstasy;O goddess sweet, give ear unto my prayer!
That I am innocent hast thou no careOf crime against celestial deity?Must I the fate of lovely Lotis share?—Come with thy doves across the briny sea!
I hear no waters' silvern melody,And yet the rippling water once was there,And on its bloomy banks I worshipped thee;—Leave thy tall fanes and thy rose gardens rare!
Could I but feel my boy's hands on my hair,Could I but kiss my sister Iole,Then bravely would I cast forth chill despair,From cruel bondage set thy vot'ress free!
I, who was once the blithesome Dryope,Am now a tree bole, cold and brown and bare;Pity, I pray, my ceaseless agony,Or grant forgetfulness of all things fair,O goddess sweet.
Clinton Scollard.
I will go hence, and seek her, my old Love;All bramble-laced, and moss-grown is the way,There is no sun, nor broad, red moon above,The year is old, he said, and skies are grey.The rose-wreaths fade, the viols are not gay,That which seemed sweet doth passing bitter prove;So sweetshewas, she will not say me nay—I will go hence and seek her, my old Love.Low, labouring sighs stirred coldly through the grove,Where buds unblossomed on the mosses lay;His upraised hands the dusky tangle clove,"All bramble-laced and moss-grown is the way!"With grievous eyes, and lips that smiled alway,Strange, flitting shapes, wreathed round him as he stroveTheir spectral arms, and filmy green array;There was no sun, nor broad red moon above.Here lies her lute—and here her slender glove;(Her bower well won, sweet joy shall crown the day);But her he saw not, vanished was his Love,The year is old, he said, and skies are grey.The wrong was mine! he cried. I left my dove(He flung him down upon the weeping clay),And now I find her flown—ah wellaway!The house is desolate that held my Love,I will go hence.
I will go hence, and seek her, my old Love;All bramble-laced, and moss-grown is the way,There is no sun, nor broad, red moon above,The year is old, he said, and skies are grey.
The rose-wreaths fade, the viols are not gay,That which seemed sweet doth passing bitter prove;So sweetshewas, she will not say me nay—I will go hence and seek her, my old Love.
Low, labouring sighs stirred coldly through the grove,Where buds unblossomed on the mosses lay;His upraised hands the dusky tangle clove,"All bramble-laced and moss-grown is the way!"
With grievous eyes, and lips that smiled alway,Strange, flitting shapes, wreathed round him as he stroveTheir spectral arms, and filmy green array;There was no sun, nor broad red moon above.
Here lies her lute—and here her slender glove;(Her bower well won, sweet joy shall crown the day);But her he saw not, vanished was his Love,The year is old, he said, and skies are grey.
The wrong was mine! he cried. I left my dove(He flung him down upon the weeping clay),And now I find her flown—ah wellaway!The house is desolate that held my Love,I will go hence.
Graham R. Tomson.
To thee, fair Isle, Italia's satellite,Italian harps their native measures lend;Yet, wooing sweet diversity, not quiteThy octaves with Italia's octaves blend.Six streaming lines amass the arrowy mightIn hers, one cataract couplet doth expend;Thine lake-wise widens, level in the light,And like to its beginning is its end.
To thee, fair Isle, Italia's satellite,Italian harps their native measures lend;Yet, wooing sweet diversity, not quiteThy octaves with Italia's octaves blend.Six streaming lines amass the arrowy mightIn hers, one cataract couplet doth expend;Thine lake-wise widens, level in the light,And like to its beginning is its end.
To thee 'tis pleasure, haply to have broughtHome precious ware from China or Japan;And thine, when keen and long pursuit hath caughtStrange bird, or Psyche gay with veinèd fan—And thine, to spell some sentence wisdom-fraughtIn palimpest or Arab alcoran;And mine, to seize some rare and coloured thoughtAnd cage it in my verse Sicilian.
To thee 'tis pleasure, haply to have broughtHome precious ware from China or Japan;And thine, when keen and long pursuit hath caughtStrange bird, or Psyche gay with veinèd fan—And thine, to spell some sentence wisdom-fraughtIn palimpest or Arab alcoran;And mine, to seize some rare and coloured thoughtAnd cage it in my verse Sicilian.
Richard Garnett, LL.D.
Although this shape is not actually akin to the group of forms in this book, yet for examples of another variety of strict verse, the author has kindly allowed two specimens to be quoted.
Although this shape is not actually akin to the group of forms in this book, yet for examples of another variety of strict verse, the author has kindly allowed two specimens to be quoted.
Allez-vous en, allez, allez,Soussy, soing et merencolie:Me cuidez-vous toute ma vieGouverner, comme fait avez?Je vous promets que non ferezRayson aura sur vous maistrieAllez-vous en, allez, allez,Soussy, soing et merencolie.Si jamais plus vous retournezAvecques vostre compaignieJe prye à Dieu qu' il vous mauldieEt le jour que vous reviendrez:Allez-vous en, allez, allez,Soussy, soing et merencolie.
Allez-vous en, allez, allez,Soussy, soing et merencolie:Me cuidez-vous toute ma vieGouverner, comme fait avez?Je vous promets que non ferezRayson aura sur vous maistrieAllez-vous en, allez, allez,Soussy, soing et merencolie.
Si jamais plus vous retournezAvecques vostre compaignieJe prye à Dieu qu' il vous mauldieEt le jour que vous reviendrez:Allez-vous en, allez, allez,Soussy, soing et merencolie.
—Charles D'Orléans.
Ma foi, c'est fait de moi, car IsabeauM'a conjuré de lui faire un rondeau.Cela me met en peine extrêmeQuoi! treize vers, huit en eau, cinq en ēme!Je lui ferais aussitôt un bateau.En voilà cinq pourtant en un monceau.Faisons-en huit en invoquant Brodeau,Et puis mettons, par quelque stratagème:Ma foi, c'est fait.Si je pouvais encor de mon cerveauTirer cinq vers l'ouvrage serait beau;Mais cependant je suis dedans l'onzième:Et ci je crois que je fais le douzième;En voilà treize ajustés au niveau.Ma foi, c'est fait.
Ma foi, c'est fait de moi, car IsabeauM'a conjuré de lui faire un rondeau.Cela me met en peine extrêmeQuoi! treize vers, huit en eau, cinq en ēme!Je lui ferais aussitôt un bateau.
En voilà cinq pourtant en un monceau.Faisons-en huit en invoquant Brodeau,Et puis mettons, par quelque stratagème:Ma foi, c'est fait.
Si je pouvais encor de mon cerveauTirer cinq vers l'ouvrage serait beau;Mais cependant je suis dedans l'onzième:Et ci je crois que je fais le douzième;En voilà treize ajustés au niveau.Ma foi, c'est fait.
—Voiture.
O honey of Hymettus Hill,Gold-brown, and cloying sweet to taste,Wert here for the soft amorous billOf Aphrodite's courser placed?Thy musky scent what virginal chasteBlossom was ravished to distil,O honey of Hymettus Hill,Gold-brown, and cloying sweet to taste?What upturned calyx drank its fillWhen ran the draught divine to waste,That her white hands were doomed to spill—Sweet Hebe, fallen and disgraced—O honey of Hymettus Hill,Gold-brown, and cloying sweet to taste?
O honey of Hymettus Hill,Gold-brown, and cloying sweet to taste,Wert here for the soft amorous billOf Aphrodite's courser placed?
Thy musky scent what virginal chasteBlossom was ravished to distil,O honey of Hymettus Hill,Gold-brown, and cloying sweet to taste?
What upturned calyx drank its fillWhen ran the draught divine to waste,That her white hands were doomed to spill—Sweet Hebe, fallen and disgraced—O honey of Hymettus Hill,Gold-brown, and cloying sweet to taste?
H. C. Bunner.
Through the fresh fairness of the Spring to ride,As in the old days when he rode with her,With joy of Love that had fond Hope to bride,One year ago had made her pulses stir.Now shall no wish with any day recur(For Love and Death part year and year full wide),Through the fresh fairness of the Spring to ride,As in the old days when he rode with her.No ghost there lingers of the smile that diedOn the sweet pale lip where his kisses were—... Yet still she turns her delicate head aside,If she may hear him come with jingling spur—Through the fresh fairness of the Spring to ride,As in the old days when he rode with her.
Through the fresh fairness of the Spring to ride,As in the old days when he rode with her,With joy of Love that had fond Hope to bride,One year ago had made her pulses stir.
Now shall no wish with any day recur(For Love and Death part year and year full wide),Through the fresh fairness of the Spring to ride,As in the old days when he rode with her.
No ghost there lingers of the smile that diedOn the sweet pale lip where his kisses were—... Yet still she turns her delicate head aside,If she may hear him come with jingling spur—Through the fresh fairness of the Spring to ride,As in the old days when he rode with her.
H. C. Bunner.
This book of hours Love wroughtWith burnished letters gold;Each page with art and thought,And colours manifold.His calendar he taughtTo youths and virgins cold;This book of hours Love wroughtWith burnished letters gold.This priceless book is boughtWith sighs and tears untold,Of votaries who soughtHis countenance of old—This book of hours Love wroughtWith burnished letters gold.
This book of hours Love wroughtWith burnished letters gold;Each page with art and thought,And colours manifold.
His calendar he taughtTo youths and virgins cold;This book of hours Love wroughtWith burnished letters gold.
This priceless book is boughtWith sighs and tears untold,Of votaries who soughtHis countenance of old—This book of hours Love wroughtWith burnished letters gold.
Walter Crane.
When time upon the wingA swallow heedless flies,Love-birds forget to singBeneath the lucent skies.For now belated springWith her last blossom hies,When time upon the wingA swallow heedless flies.What summer hope shall bringTo wistful dreaming eyes?What fateful forecast flingBefore life's last surprise?When time upon the wingA swallow heedless flies.
When time upon the wingA swallow heedless flies,Love-birds forget to singBeneath the lucent skies.
For now belated springWith her last blossom hies,When time upon the wingA swallow heedless flies.
What summer hope shall bringTo wistful dreaming eyes?What fateful forecast flingBefore life's last surprise?When time upon the wingA swallow heedless flies.
Walter Crane.
(Rondel.)
Love comes back to his vacant dwelling,—The old, old Love that we knew of yore!We see him stand by the open doorWith his great eyes sad, and his bosom swelling.He makes as though in our arms repelling,He fain would lie as he lay before;—Love comes back to his vacant dwelling,—The old, old Love that we knew of yore!Ah! who shall help us from over-spelling,That sweet forgotten, forbidden lore!E'en as we doubt in our hearts once more,With a rush of tears to our eyelids welling,Love comes back to his vacant dwelling.
Love comes back to his vacant dwelling,—The old, old Love that we knew of yore!We see him stand by the open doorWith his great eyes sad, and his bosom swelling.
He makes as though in our arms repelling,He fain would lie as he lay before;—Love comes back to his vacant dwelling,—The old, old Love that we knew of yore!
Ah! who shall help us from over-spelling,That sweet forgotten, forbidden lore!E'en as we doubt in our hearts once more,With a rush of tears to our eyelids welling,Love comes back to his vacant dwelling.
Austin Dobson.
When love is in her eyesWhat need of Spring for me?A brighter emerald liesOn hill and vale and lea.The azure of the skiesHolds nought so sweet to me;When love is in her eyesWhat need of spring for me?Her bloom the rose outvies,The lily dares no plea,The violet's glory dies,No flower so sweet can be;When love is in her eyesWhat need of spring for me?
When love is in her eyesWhat need of Spring for me?A brighter emerald liesOn hill and vale and lea.
The azure of the skiesHolds nought so sweet to me;When love is in her eyesWhat need of spring for me?
Her bloom the rose outvies,The lily dares no plea,The violet's glory dies,No flower so sweet can be;When love is in her eyesWhat need of spring for me?
Anna Maria Fay.
[After Anyte of Tegea.]
Underneath this tablet rest,Grasshopper by autumn slain,Since thine airy summer nestShivers under storm and rain.Freely let it be confessedDeath and slumber bring thee gainSpared from winter's fret and pain,Underneath this tablet rest.Myro found thee on the plain,Bore thee in her lawny breast,Reared this marble tomb amainTo receive so small a guest!Underneath this tablet rest,Grasshopper by autumn slain.
Underneath this tablet rest,Grasshopper by autumn slain,Since thine airy summer nestShivers under storm and rain.
Freely let it be confessedDeath and slumber bring thee gainSpared from winter's fret and pain,Underneath this tablet rest.
Myro found thee on the plain,Bore thee in her lawny breast,Reared this marble tomb amainTo receive so small a guest!Underneath this tablet rest,Grasshopper by autumn slain.
Edmund Gosse.
How is it you and IAre always meeting so?I see you passing byWhichever way I go.I cannot say I knowThe spell that draws us nigh.How is it you and IAre always meeting so?Still thoughts to thoughts reply,And whispers ebb and flow;I say it with a sighBut half confessed and low,How is it you and IAre always meeting so?
How is it you and IAre always meeting so?I see you passing byWhichever way I go.
I cannot say I knowThe spell that draws us nigh.How is it you and IAre always meeting so?
Still thoughts to thoughts reply,And whispers ebb and flow;I say it with a sighBut half confessed and low,How is it you and IAre always meeting so?
John Cameron Grant.
"Alons au bois le may cueillir."—Charles D'Orléans.
"Alons au bois le may cueillir."—Charles D'Orléans.
We'll to the woods and gather mayFresh from the footprints of the rain;We'll to the woods, at every veinTo drink the spirit of the day.The winds of spring are out at play,The needs of spring in heart and brain.We'll to the woods and gather mayFresh from the footprints of the rain.The world's too near her end, you say?—Hark to the blackbird's mad refrain!It waits for her, the vast Inane?—Then, girls, to help her on the wayWe'll to the woods and gather may.
We'll to the woods and gather mayFresh from the footprints of the rain;We'll to the woods, at every veinTo drink the spirit of the day.
The winds of spring are out at play,The needs of spring in heart and brain.We'll to the woods and gather mayFresh from the footprints of the rain.
The world's too near her end, you say?—Hark to the blackbird's mad refrain!It waits for her, the vast Inane?—Then, girls, to help her on the wayWe'll to the woods and gather may.
W. E. Henley.
"Ainsi qu' aux fleurs la vieillesse,Fera ternir votre beauté."—Ronsard.And lightly, like the flowers,Your beauties Age will dim,Who makes the song a hymn,And turns the sweets to sours!Alas! the chubby HoursGrow lank and grey and grim,And lightly, like the flowers,Your beauties Age will dim.Still rosy are the bowers,The walks yet green and trim.Among them let your whimPass sweetly, like the showers,And lightly, like the flowers.
"Ainsi qu' aux fleurs la vieillesse,Fera ternir votre beauté."—Ronsard.
"Ainsi qu' aux fleurs la vieillesse,
Fera ternir votre beauté."—Ronsard.
And lightly, like the flowers,Your beauties Age will dim,Who makes the song a hymn,And turns the sweets to sours!
Alas! the chubby HoursGrow lank and grey and grim,And lightly, like the flowers,Your beauties Age will dim.
Still rosy are the bowers,The walks yet green and trim.Among them let your whimPass sweetly, like the showers,And lightly, like the flowers.
W. E. Henley.
"Hic habitat Felicitas."
"Felicity. Enquire within.The genial goddess is at home!"So read and thought the rakes of Rome,Some frail one's lintel fain to win.And now it blares thro' bronze and tin,Thro' clarion, organ, catcall, comb:—"Felicity. Enquire within.The genial goddess is at home!"For, tent or studio, bank or bin,Platonic porch, Petræan dome,Where'er our hobbies champ and foam,Thero'er the brave old sign we pin—"Felicity. Enquire within."
"Felicity. Enquire within.The genial goddess is at home!"So read and thought the rakes of Rome,Some frail one's lintel fain to win.
And now it blares thro' bronze and tin,Thro' clarion, organ, catcall, comb:—"Felicity. Enquire within.The genial goddess is at home!"
For, tent or studio, bank or bin,Platonic porch, Petræan dome,Where'er our hobbies champ and foam,Thero'er the brave old sign we pin—"Felicity. Enquire within."
W. E. Henley.
"And sweet girl graduates in their golden hair."—Tennyson.
Sweet girl graduates, golden-haired,You for whom has been preparedLove's fair university,Dons and double-firsts to be-Why are you so quickly scared?When the prudes their worst have glared,When the dowagers have stared,What has passed they might not see,Sweet girl-graduates, golden-haired,You for whom has been preparedLove's fair university?Most is won when most is dared.Let your dainty lore be aired.Love and thought and fun are free.All must flirt in their degree.Books alone have never rearedSweet girl-graduates, golden-haired.
Sweet girl graduates, golden-haired,You for whom has been preparedLove's fair university,Dons and double-firsts to be-Why are you so quickly scared?
When the prudes their worst have glared,When the dowagers have stared,What has passed they might not see,Sweet girl-graduates, golden-haired,You for whom has been preparedLove's fair university?
Most is won when most is dared.Let your dainty lore be aired.Love and thought and fun are free.All must flirt in their degree.Books alone have never rearedSweet girl-graduates, golden-haired.
W. E. Henley.
The ways of Death are soothing and serene,And all the words of Death are grave and sweet.From camp and church, the fireside and the street,She signs to come, and strife and song have been.A summer night descending, cool and greenAnd dark, on daytime's dust and stress and heat,The ways of Death are soothing and serene,And all the words of Death are grave and sweetO glad and sorrowful, with triumphant mienAnd hopeful faces look upon and greetThis last of all your lovers, and to meetHer kiss, the Comforter's, your spirit lean....The ways of Death are soothing and serene.
The ways of Death are soothing and serene,And all the words of Death are grave and sweet.From camp and church, the fireside and the street,She signs to come, and strife and song have been.
A summer night descending, cool and greenAnd dark, on daytime's dust and stress and heat,The ways of Death are soothing and serene,And all the words of Death are grave and sweet
O glad and sorrowful, with triumphant mienAnd hopeful faces look upon and greetThis last of all your lovers, and to meetHer kiss, the Comforter's, your spirit lean....The ways of Death are soothing and serene.
W. E. Henley.
I love you dearly, O my sweet!Although you pass me lightly by,Although you weave my life awry,And tread my heart beneath your feet.I tremble at your touch; I sighTo see you passing down the street;I love you dearly, O my sweet!Although you pass me lightly by.You say in scorn that love's a cheat,Passion a blunder, youth a lie.I know not. Only when we meetI long to kiss your hand and cry,"I love you dearly, O my sweet,Although you pass me lightly by."
I love you dearly, O my sweet!Although you pass me lightly by,Although you weave my life awry,And tread my heart beneath your feet.
I tremble at your touch; I sighTo see you passing down the street;I love you dearly, O my sweet!Although you pass me lightly by.
You say in scorn that love's a cheat,Passion a blunder, youth a lie.I know not. Only when we meetI long to kiss your hand and cry,"I love you dearly, O my sweet,Although you pass me lightly by."
Justin Huntly McCarthy.
When on the mid sea of the night,I waken at thy call, O Lord.The first that troop my bark aboardAre darksome imps that hate the light,Whose tongues are arrows, eyes a blight—Of wraths and cares a pirate horde—Though on the mid sea of the nightIt was thy call that waked me, Lord.Then I must to my arms and fight—Catch up my shield and two-edged sword,The words of him who is thy word:Nor cease till they are put to flight:—Then in the mid sea of the nightI turn and listen for thee, Lord.
When on the mid sea of the night,I waken at thy call, O Lord.The first that troop my bark aboardAre darksome imps that hate the light,Whose tongues are arrows, eyes a blight—Of wraths and cares a pirate horde—Though on the mid sea of the nightIt was thy call that waked me, Lord.
Then I must to my arms and fight—Catch up my shield and two-edged sword,The words of him who is thy word:Nor cease till they are put to flight:—Then in the mid sea of the nightI turn and listen for thee, Lord.
There comes no voice from thee, O Lord,Across the mid sea of the night!I lift my voice and cry with might:If thou keep silent, soon a hordeOf imps again will swarm aboard,And I shall be in sorry plightIf no voice come from thee, O Lord,Across the mid sea of the night.There comes no voice; I hear no word!But in my soul dawns something bright:—There is no sea, no foe to fight!Thy heart and mine beat one accord:I need no voice from thee, O Lord,Across the mid sea of the night.
There comes no voice from thee, O Lord,Across the mid sea of the night!I lift my voice and cry with might:If thou keep silent, soon a hordeOf imps again will swarm aboard,And I shall be in sorry plightIf no voice come from thee, O Lord,Across the mid sea of the night.
There comes no voice; I hear no word!But in my soul dawns something bright:—There is no sea, no foe to fight!Thy heart and mine beat one accord:I need no voice from thee, O Lord,Across the mid sea of the night.
George MacDonald.
The lilacs are in bloom,All is that ever was,And Cupids peep and passThrough the curtains of the room.Season of light perfume,Hide all beneath thy grass.The lilacs are in bloom,All is that ever was.Dead hopes new shapes assume;Town belle and country lassForget the word "Alas,"For over every tombThe lilacs are in bloom.
The lilacs are in bloom,All is that ever was,And Cupids peep and passThrough the curtains of the room.
Season of light perfume,Hide all beneath thy grass.The lilacs are in bloom,All is that ever was.
Dead hopes new shapes assume;Town belle and country lassForget the word "Alas,"For over every tombThe lilacs are in bloom.
Summer has seen decayOf roses white and red,And Love with wings outspreadSpeeds after yesterday.Blue skies have changed to grey,And joy has sorrow wed:Summer has seen decayOf roses white and red.May's flowers outlast not May;And when the hour has fled,Around the roses deadThe mournful echoes say—Summer has seen decay.
Summer has seen decayOf roses white and red,And Love with wings outspreadSpeeds after yesterday.
Blue skies have changed to grey,And joy has sorrow wed:Summer has seen decayOf roses white and red.
May's flowers outlast not May;And when the hour has fled,Around the roses deadThe mournful echoes say—Summer has seen decay.
George Moore.