When Clarice died, and it was told to me,I only covered up my face, and sighedTo lose the world and cease to breathe or see,When Clarice died.She was my playmate, sweet, and thoughtful-eyed,With curls, gold curls, that fluttered wild and free;My child companion and most tender guide.When Clarice died I wandered wearilyDown the mute grove where she was wont to hide,And cast myself beneath her favourite tree,When Clarice died.
When Clarice died, and it was told to me,I only covered up my face, and sighedTo lose the world and cease to breathe or see,When Clarice died.
She was my playmate, sweet, and thoughtful-eyed,With curls, gold curls, that fluttered wild and free;My child companion and most tender guide.
When Clarice died I wandered wearilyDown the mute grove where she was wont to hide,And cast myself beneath her favourite tree,When Clarice died.
Bernard Weller.
In a fairy boat on a fairy sea,All amber and gold, I used to floatWhen never a wind rose stormily;In a fairy boat.And sweet and sad like a white dove's noteStrange voices wakened my soul to glee,And soft scents strayed from the violets' throat.In a fairy boat I shall no more be,For gloom has fallen on creek and moat,And my tired soul's too heavy to fleeIn a fairy boat.
In a fairy boat on a fairy sea,All amber and gold, I used to floatWhen never a wind rose stormily;In a fairy boat.
And sweet and sad like a white dove's noteStrange voices wakened my soul to glee,And soft scents strayed from the violets' throat.
In a fairy boat I shall no more be,For gloom has fallen on creek and moat,And my tired soul's too heavy to fleeIn a fairy boat.
Bernard Weller.
"La sextine en général sera l'expression d'une rêverie, dans laquelle la même idée, les mêmes objets se représenteront successivement à l'esprit avec des nuances diverses jouant et se transformant par d'harmonieuses gradations."
"La sextine en général sera l'expression d'une rêverie, dans laquelle la même idée, les mêmes objets se représenteront successivement à l'esprit avec des nuances diverses jouant et se transformant par d'harmonieuses gradations."
—De Gramont.
When from the portals of her paradiseSweet Eve went forth an exile with sad heart,She lingered at the thrice-barred gate in tears,And to the guardian of that Eden fair,As on her cheeks there came and went the rose,She weeping mourned the harshness of her fate."O angel," cried she, "bitter is the fateThat drives me from this fairest paradise,And bids me wear life's rue and not its rose!Give me one flower to lay upon my heartBefore I wander through far lands less fair,And drown all visions of my past in tears."She ceased, but still flowed fast her silent tearsAt memory of the waywardness of fate."Ah," thought she, "young I am, 'tis true, and fair,But shall I find another paradise?"Then turning once again with trembling heart,She spake: "O angel, but a rose-one rose!"Within the angel's breast compassion roseAt sight of her sad face and falling tears,The while her beauty touched his tender heart,And knowing well the misery of her fate,He gave the flower, a rose of paradise,Because she was so very young and fair.And since that time there may be flowers as fair,But they must all yield fealty to the rose,The red, red rose that bloomed in paradise,That Eve in exile watered with her tears,The only blossom in her cheerless fate,The one flower in the desert of her heart.And into every mortal's life and heartThere come some time, in cloudy days or fair,It matters not, to bless and light his fateFor one short space, the perfume of the rose;And though the after years may bring but tears,That moment's pleasure is of paradise.O wondrous rose of love most passing fair,Whate'er our fate in earthly paradise,Grant that our tears be dewdrops in thy heart.
When from the portals of her paradiseSweet Eve went forth an exile with sad heart,She lingered at the thrice-barred gate in tears,And to the guardian of that Eden fair,As on her cheeks there came and went the rose,She weeping mourned the harshness of her fate.
"O angel," cried she, "bitter is the fateThat drives me from this fairest paradise,And bids me wear life's rue and not its rose!Give me one flower to lay upon my heartBefore I wander through far lands less fair,And drown all visions of my past in tears."
She ceased, but still flowed fast her silent tearsAt memory of the waywardness of fate."Ah," thought she, "young I am, 'tis true, and fair,But shall I find another paradise?"Then turning once again with trembling heart,She spake: "O angel, but a rose-one rose!"
Within the angel's breast compassion roseAt sight of her sad face and falling tears,The while her beauty touched his tender heart,And knowing well the misery of her fate,He gave the flower, a rose of paradise,Because she was so very young and fair.
And since that time there may be flowers as fair,But they must all yield fealty to the rose,The red, red rose that bloomed in paradise,That Eve in exile watered with her tears,The only blossom in her cheerless fate,The one flower in the desert of her heart.
And into every mortal's life and heartThere come some time, in cloudy days or fair,It matters not, to bless and light his fateFor one short space, the perfume of the rose;And though the after years may bring but tears,That moment's pleasure is of paradise.
O wondrous rose of love most passing fair,Whate'er our fate in earthly paradise,Grant that our tears be dewdrops in thy heart.
Florence M. Byrne.
(Sestina.)
Love lies a-sleeping: maiden, softly sing,Lest he should waken; pluck the falling roseA-brushing 'gainst his cheek, her glowing heartOpe'd to the sun's hot kisses-foolish thing,To list the tale oft told!-but summer goes,And all the roses' petals fall apart.Love lies a-sleeping: let the curtains partSo that the breeze may lightly to him singA lullaby-the changeful breeze that goesA-whispering through the grass, where'er it rose,Where'er it listeth bound, a wilful thing,Low murmuring sweets from an inconstant heart.Love lies a-sleeping: press the pulsing heartThat beats against thy bosom: stand apartAnd stay thine eager breath, lest anythingShould mar his rest-the songs that lovers sing,The tale the butterfly tells to the rose,The low wind to the grass, and onward goes.Love lies a-sleeping: ah, how swiftly goesThe sweet delusion he hath taught thy heart,Fair maiden, pressing to thy breast the roseWhose sun-kiss'd petals sadly fall apartWith thy quick breath! That rhyme wouldst hear him singWhich yesterday seem'd such a foolish thing?Love lies a-sleeping: nay, for such a thingBreak not his slumber. See how sweetly goesThat smile across his lips, that will not singFor very wilfulness. Love hath no heart!If he should wake, these red-ripe lips would partIn laughter low to see this ravish'd rose.Love lies a-sleeping: so the full-blown roseFalls to the earth a dead unpitied thing;The grasses 'neath the breeze deep-sighing partAnd sway; and as thy warm breath comes and goesIn motion with the red tides of thy heart,The song is hush'd which Love was wont to sing.Love lies a-sleeping: thus in dreams he goes;Strive not to waken him, but tell thy heart,"Love lies a-sleeping, and he may not sing."
Love lies a-sleeping: maiden, softly sing,Lest he should waken; pluck the falling roseA-brushing 'gainst his cheek, her glowing heartOpe'd to the sun's hot kisses-foolish thing,To list the tale oft told!-but summer goes,And all the roses' petals fall apart.
Love lies a-sleeping: let the curtains partSo that the breeze may lightly to him singA lullaby-the changeful breeze that goesA-whispering through the grass, where'er it rose,Where'er it listeth bound, a wilful thing,Low murmuring sweets from an inconstant heart.
Love lies a-sleeping: press the pulsing heartThat beats against thy bosom: stand apartAnd stay thine eager breath, lest anythingShould mar his rest-the songs that lovers sing,The tale the butterfly tells to the rose,The low wind to the grass, and onward goes.
Love lies a-sleeping: ah, how swiftly goesThe sweet delusion he hath taught thy heart,Fair maiden, pressing to thy breast the roseWhose sun-kiss'd petals sadly fall apartWith thy quick breath! That rhyme wouldst hear him singWhich yesterday seem'd such a foolish thing?
Love lies a-sleeping: nay, for such a thingBreak not his slumber. See how sweetly goesThat smile across his lips, that will not singFor very wilfulness. Love hath no heart!If he should wake, these red-ripe lips would partIn laughter low to see this ravish'd rose.
Love lies a-sleeping: so the full-blown roseFalls to the earth a dead unpitied thing;The grasses 'neath the breeze deep-sighing partAnd sway; and as thy warm breath comes and goesIn motion with the red tides of thy heart,The song is hush'd which Love was wont to sing.
Love lies a-sleeping: thus in dreams he goes;Strive not to waken him, but tell thy heart,"Love lies a-sleeping, and he may not sing."
Charles W. Coleman, Jun.
To F. H.
"'Fra tutte il primo Arnoldo DanielloGrand maestro d'amor.'"-Petrarch.
"'Fra tutte il primo Arnoldo DanielloGrand maestro d'amor.'"-Petrarch.
"'Fra tutte il primo Arnoldo Daniello
Grand maestro d'amor.'"-Petrarch.
In fair Provence, the land of lute and rose,Arnaut, great master of the lore of love,First wrought sestines to win his lady's heart;For she was deaf when simpler staves he sang,And for her sake he broke the bonds of rhyme,And in this subtler measure hid his woe.'Harsh be my lines,' cried Arnaut, 'harsh the woe,My lady, that enthron'd and cruel rose,Inflicts on him that made her live in rhyme!'But through the metre spake the voice of Love,And like a wild-wood nightingale he sangWho thought in crabbed lays to ease his heart.It is not told if her untoward heartWas melted by her poet's lyric woe,Or if in vain so amorously he sang.Perchance through crowd of dark conceits he roseTo nobler heights of philosophic love,And crowned his later years with sterner rhyme.This thing alone we know: the triple rhyme,Of him who bared his vast and passionate heartTo all the crossing flames of hate and love,Wears in the midst of all its storm of woe,-As some loud morn of March may bear a rose,-The impress of a song that Arnaut sang.'Smith of his mother-tongue,' the Frenchman sangOf Lancelot and of Galahad, the rhymeThat beat so bloodlike at its core of rose,It stirred the sweet Francesca's gentle heartTo take that kiss that brought her so much woe,And sealed in fire her martyrdom of love.And Dante, full of her immortal love,Stayed his drear song, and softly, fondly sangAs though his voice broke with that weight of woe;And to this day we think of Arnaut's rhymeWhenever pity at the labouring heartOn fair Francesca's memory drops the rose.Ah! sovereign Love, forgive this weaker rhyme!The men of old who sang were great at heart,Yet have we too known woe, and worn thy rose.
In fair Provence, the land of lute and rose,Arnaut, great master of the lore of love,First wrought sestines to win his lady's heart;For she was deaf when simpler staves he sang,And for her sake he broke the bonds of rhyme,And in this subtler measure hid his woe.
'Harsh be my lines,' cried Arnaut, 'harsh the woe,My lady, that enthron'd and cruel rose,Inflicts on him that made her live in rhyme!'But through the metre spake the voice of Love,And like a wild-wood nightingale he sangWho thought in crabbed lays to ease his heart.
It is not told if her untoward heartWas melted by her poet's lyric woe,Or if in vain so amorously he sang.Perchance through crowd of dark conceits he roseTo nobler heights of philosophic love,And crowned his later years with sterner rhyme.
This thing alone we know: the triple rhyme,Of him who bared his vast and passionate heartTo all the crossing flames of hate and love,Wears in the midst of all its storm of woe,-As some loud morn of March may bear a rose,-The impress of a song that Arnaut sang.
'Smith of his mother-tongue,' the Frenchman sangOf Lancelot and of Galahad, the rhymeThat beat so bloodlike at its core of rose,It stirred the sweet Francesca's gentle heartTo take that kiss that brought her so much woe,And sealed in fire her martyrdom of love.
And Dante, full of her immortal love,Stayed his drear song, and softly, fondly sangAs though his voice broke with that weight of woe;And to this day we think of Arnaut's rhymeWhenever pity at the labouring heartOn fair Francesca's memory drops the rose.
Ah! sovereign Love, forgive this weaker rhyme!The men of old who sang were great at heart,Yet have we too known woe, and worn thy rose.
Edmund Gosse.
(A Sestina.)
Along the crowded streets I walk and thinkHow I, a shadow, pace among the shades,For I and all men seem to me unreal:Foam that the seas of God, which cover allCast on the air a moment, shadows thrownIn moving westward by the Moon of Death.Oh, shall it set at last, that orb of Death?May any morning follow? As I think,From one surmise upon another thrown,My very thoughts appear to me as shades-Shades, like the prisoning self that bounds them all,Shades, like the transient world, and as unreal.But other hours there be when I, unreal,When only I, vague in a conscious Death,Move through the mass of men unseen by all;I move along their ways, I feel and think,Yet am more light than echoes, or the shadesThat hide me, from their stronger bodies thrown.And better moments come, when, overthrownAll round me, lie the ruins of the unrealAnd momentary world, as thin as shades;When I alone, triumphant over Death,Eternal, vast, fill with the thoughts I think,And with my single soul the frame of all.Ah, for a moment could I grasp it all!Ah, could but I (poor wrestler often thrown)Once grapple with the truth, oh then, I think,Assured of which is living, which unreal,I would not murmur, though among the shadesMy lot were cast, among the shades and Death."One thing is true," I said, "and that is Death,"And yet it may be God disproves it all;And Death may be a passage from the shades,And films on our beclouded senses thrown;And Death may be a step beyond the UnrealTowards the Thought that answers all I think.In vain I think. O moon-like thought of Death,All is unreal beneath thee, uncertain all,Dim moon-ray thrown along a world of shades.
Along the crowded streets I walk and thinkHow I, a shadow, pace among the shades,For I and all men seem to me unreal:Foam that the seas of God, which cover allCast on the air a moment, shadows thrownIn moving westward by the Moon of Death.
Oh, shall it set at last, that orb of Death?May any morning follow? As I think,From one surmise upon another thrown,My very thoughts appear to me as shades-Shades, like the prisoning self that bounds them all,Shades, like the transient world, and as unreal.
But other hours there be when I, unreal,When only I, vague in a conscious Death,Move through the mass of men unseen by all;I move along their ways, I feel and think,Yet am more light than echoes, or the shadesThat hide me, from their stronger bodies thrown.
And better moments come, when, overthrownAll round me, lie the ruins of the unrealAnd momentary world, as thin as shades;When I alone, triumphant over Death,Eternal, vast, fill with the thoughts I think,And with my single soul the frame of all.
Ah, for a moment could I grasp it all!Ah, could but I (poor wrestler often thrown)Once grapple with the truth, oh then, I think,Assured of which is living, which unreal,I would not murmur, though among the shadesMy lot were cast, among the shades and Death.
"One thing is true," I said, "and that is Death,"And yet it may be God disproves it all;And Death may be a passage from the shades,And films on our beclouded senses thrown;And Death may be a step beyond the UnrealTowards the Thought that answers all I think.
In vain I think. O moon-like thought of Death,All is unreal beneath thee, uncertain all,Dim moon-ray thrown along a world of shades.
A. Mary F. Robinson.
(Sestina.)
One merry morn when all the earth was bright,And flushed with dewy dawn's encrimsoning rayA shepherd youth, o'er whose fair face the lightOf rosy smiles was ever wont to stray,Roamed through a level grassy mead, bedightWith springtime blossoms, fragrant, fresh and gay.But now, alas! his mood was far from gay;And musing how the dark world would be brightCould he but win his maiden's love, and strayWith her forever, basking in its light,He saw afar, in morn's bright beaming ray,A lissome boy with archer's arms bedight.The boy shot arrows at a tree bedightWith red-winged songsters warbling sweet and gayAmid the leaves and blossoms blooming bright.He seemed an aimless, wandering waif astray,And so the shepherd caught him, stealing light,While from his eyes he flashed an angry ray.The fair boy plead until a kindly rayShone o'er the shepherd's clouded brow, bedightWith clustering locks, and he said, smiling gay,"I prithee promise, by thy face so bright,To ne'er again, where'er thou mayest stray,Slay the sweet birds that make so glad the light."While yet he spake, from out those eyes a lightDivine shot forth, before whose glowing rayThe shepherd quailed, it was so wondrous bright;Then well he knew 'twas Cupid coy and gay,With all his arts and subtle wiles bedight,And knelt in homage lest the boy should stray."Rise," said the God, "and e'er thy footsteps strayKnow that within her eyes where beamed no lightOf love for thee, I will implant a ray.She shall be thine with all her charms bedight."The shepherd kissèd Love's hand and bounded gayTo gain his bliss,—and all the world was bright.When naught is bright to these that sadly stray,Oftimes a single ray of Eros' lightWill make all earth bedight with radiance gay.
One merry morn when all the earth was bright,And flushed with dewy dawn's encrimsoning rayA shepherd youth, o'er whose fair face the lightOf rosy smiles was ever wont to stray,Roamed through a level grassy mead, bedightWith springtime blossoms, fragrant, fresh and gay.
But now, alas! his mood was far from gay;And musing how the dark world would be brightCould he but win his maiden's love, and strayWith her forever, basking in its light,He saw afar, in morn's bright beaming ray,A lissome boy with archer's arms bedight.
The boy shot arrows at a tree bedightWith red-winged songsters warbling sweet and gayAmid the leaves and blossoms blooming bright.He seemed an aimless, wandering waif astray,And so the shepherd caught him, stealing light,While from his eyes he flashed an angry ray.
The fair boy plead until a kindly rayShone o'er the shepherd's clouded brow, bedightWith clustering locks, and he said, smiling gay,"I prithee promise, by thy face so bright,To ne'er again, where'er thou mayest stray,Slay the sweet birds that make so glad the light."
While yet he spake, from out those eyes a lightDivine shot forth, before whose glowing rayThe shepherd quailed, it was so wondrous bright;Then well he knew 'twas Cupid coy and gay,With all his arts and subtle wiles bedight,And knelt in homage lest the boy should stray.
"Rise," said the God, "and e'er thy footsteps strayKnow that within her eyes where beamed no lightOf love for thee, I will implant a ray.She shall be thine with all her charms bedight."The shepherd kissèd Love's hand and bounded gayTo gain his bliss,—and all the world was bright.
When naught is bright to these that sadly stray,Oftimes a single ray of Eros' lightWill make all earth bedight with radiance gay.
Clinton Scollard.
I saw my soul at rest upon a dayAs a bird sleeping in the nest of night,Among soft leaves that give the starlight wayTo touch its wings but not its eyes with light;So that it knew as one in visions may,And knew not as men waking, of delight.This was the measure of my soul's delight;It had no power of joy to fly by day,Nor part in the large lordship of the light;But in a secret moon-beholden wayHad all its will of dreams and pleasant night,And all the love and life that sleepers may.But such life's triumph as men waking mayIt might not have to feed its faint delightBetween the stars by night and sun by day,Shut up with green leaves and a little light;Because its way was as a lost star's way,A world's not wholly known of day or night.All loves and dreams and sounds and gleams of nightMade it all music that such minstrels may,And all they had they gave it of delight;But in the full face of the fire of dayWhat place shall be for any starry light,What part of heaven in all the wide sun's way?Yet the soul woke not, sleeping by the way,Watched as a nursling of the large eyed night,And sought no strength nor knowledge of the day,Nor closer touch conclusive of delight,Nor mightier joy nor truer than dreamers may,Nor more of song than they, nor more of light.For who sleeps once and sees the secret lightWhereby sleep shows the soul a fairer wayBetween the rise and rest of day and night,Shall care no more to fare as all men may,But be his place of pain or of delight,There shall he dwell, beholding night as day.Song, have thy day and take thy fill of lightBefore the night be fallen across thy way;Sing while he may, man hath no long delight.
I saw my soul at rest upon a dayAs a bird sleeping in the nest of night,Among soft leaves that give the starlight wayTo touch its wings but not its eyes with light;So that it knew as one in visions may,And knew not as men waking, of delight.
This was the measure of my soul's delight;It had no power of joy to fly by day,Nor part in the large lordship of the light;But in a secret moon-beholden wayHad all its will of dreams and pleasant night,And all the love and life that sleepers may.
But such life's triumph as men waking mayIt might not have to feed its faint delightBetween the stars by night and sun by day,Shut up with green leaves and a little light;Because its way was as a lost star's way,A world's not wholly known of day or night.
All loves and dreams and sounds and gleams of nightMade it all music that such minstrels may,And all they had they gave it of delight;But in the full face of the fire of dayWhat place shall be for any starry light,What part of heaven in all the wide sun's way?
Yet the soul woke not, sleeping by the way,Watched as a nursling of the large eyed night,And sought no strength nor knowledge of the day,Nor closer touch conclusive of delight,Nor mightier joy nor truer than dreamers may,Nor more of song than they, nor more of light.
For who sleeps once and sees the secret lightWhereby sleep shows the soul a fairer wayBetween the rise and rest of day and night,Shall care no more to fare as all men may,But be his place of pain or of delight,There shall he dwell, beholding night as day.
Song, have thy day and take thy fill of lightBefore the night be fallen across thy way;Sing while he may, man hath no long delight.
Algernon Charles Swinburne.
Le premier jour du mois de maiFut le plus heureux de ma vie:Le beau dessein que je formai,Le premier jour du mois de mai!Je vous vis et je vous aimai.Si ce dessein vous plut, Sylvie,Le premier jour du mois de maiFut le plus heureux de ma vie.
Le premier jour du mois de maiFut le plus heureux de ma vie:Le beau dessein que je formai,Le premier jour du mois de mai!Je vous vis et je vous aimai.Si ce dessein vous plut, Sylvie,Le premier jour du mois de maiFut le plus heureux de ma vie.
—Ranchin.
Moi, je regardais ce cou-là.Maintenant chantez, me dit Paule.Avec des mines d'AttilaMoi, je regardais ce cou-là.Puis, un peu de temps s' écoula ...Moi, je regardais ce cou-là;Maintenant chantez, me dit Paule.
Moi, je regardais ce cou-là.Maintenant chantez, me dit Paule.Avec des mines d'AttilaMoi, je regardais ce cou-là.Puis, un peu de temps s' écoula ...Moi, je regardais ce cou-là;Maintenant chantez, me dit Paule.
—Theodore de Banville.
"Mon fils, AbsalonAbsalon, mon fils,Las! perdu l'avonMon fils Absalon;Il faut que soyonEn grief deuil confisMon fils AbsalonAbsalon, mon fils!"
"Mon fils, AbsalonAbsalon, mon fils,Las! perdu l'avonMon fils Absalon;Il faut que soyonEn grief deuil confisMon fils AbsalonAbsalon, mon fils!"
—Old French Play.
She's neither scholarly nor wise,But, oh, her heart is wondrous tender,And love lies laughing in her eyes.She's neither scholarly nor wise,And yet above all else I prizeThe right from evil to defend her.She's neither scholarly nor wise,But, oh, her heart is wondrous tender.
She's neither scholarly nor wise,But, oh, her heart is wondrous tender,And love lies laughing in her eyes.She's neither scholarly nor wise,And yet above all else I prizeThe right from evil to defend her.She's neither scholarly nor wise,But, oh, her heart is wondrous tender.
Griffith Alexander.
When first we met, we did not guessThat Love would prove so hard a master;Of more than common friendlinessWhen first we met we did not guess.Who could foretell the sore distress,This irretrievable disaster,When first we met?-we did not guessThat Love would prove so hard a master.
When first we met, we did not guessThat Love would prove so hard a master;Of more than common friendlinessWhen first we met we did not guess.Who could foretell the sore distress,This irretrievable disaster,When first we met?-we did not guessThat Love would prove so hard a master.
Robert Bridges.
All women born are so perverse,No man need boast their love possessing,If nought seem better, nothing's worse;All women born are so perverse,From Adam's wife that proved a curse,Though God had made her for a blessing.All women born are so perverseNo man need boast their love possessing.
All women born are so perverse,No man need boast their love possessing,If nought seem better, nothing's worse;All women born are so perverse,From Adam's wife that proved a curse,Though God had made her for a blessing.All women born are so perverseNo man need boast their love possessing.
Robert Bridges.
'Twas a Jacqueminot roseThat she gave me at parting;Sweetest flower that blows,'Twas a Jacqueminot rose.In the love garden close,With the swift blushes starting,'Twas a Jacqueminot roseThat she gave me at parting.If she kissed it, who knows-Since I will not discover,And love is that close,If she kissed it, who knows?Or if not the red rosePerhaps then the lover!If she kissed it, who knows,Since I will not discover.Yet at least with the roseWent a kiss that I'm wearing!More I will not disclose,Yet at least with the roseWentwhosekiss no one knows,-Since I'm only declaring,"Yet at least with the roseWent a kiss that I'm wearing."
'Twas a Jacqueminot roseThat she gave me at parting;Sweetest flower that blows,'Twas a Jacqueminot rose.In the love garden close,With the swift blushes starting,'Twas a Jacqueminot roseThat she gave me at parting.
If she kissed it, who knows-Since I will not discover,And love is that close,If she kissed it, who knows?Or if not the red rosePerhaps then the lover!If she kissed it, who knows,Since I will not discover.
Yet at least with the roseWent a kiss that I'm wearing!More I will not disclose,Yet at least with the roseWentwhosekiss no one knows,-Since I'm only declaring,"Yet at least with the roseWent a kiss that I'm wearing."
Arlo Bates.
Wee Rose is but three,Yet coquettes she already.I can scarcely agreeWee Rose is but three,When her archness I see!Are the sex born unsteady?-Wee Rose is but three,Yet coquettes she already.
Wee Rose is but three,Yet coquettes she already.I can scarcely agreeWee Rose is but three,When her archness I see!Are the sex born unsteady?-Wee Rose is but three,Yet coquettes she already.
Arlo Bates.
A pitcher of mignonetteIn a tenement's highest casement;Queer sort of a flower-pot-yetThat pitcher of mignonetteIs a garden in heaven setTo the little sick child in the basement,-The pitcher of mignonetteIn the tenement's highest casement.
A pitcher of mignonetteIn a tenement's highest casement;Queer sort of a flower-pot-yetThat pitcher of mignonetteIs a garden in heaven setTo the little sick child in the basement,-The pitcher of mignonetteIn the tenement's highest casement.
H. C. Bunner.
In the light, in the shade,This is time and life's measure:With a heart unafraid,In the light, in the shade,Hope is born and not made,And the heart finds its treasureIn the light, in the shade;This is time and life's measure.
In the light, in the shade,This is time and life's measure:With a heart unafraid,In the light, in the shade,Hope is born and not made,And the heart finds its treasureIn the light, in the shade;This is time and life's measure.
Walter Crane.
Away from city chafe and care,At forty miles an hour flying,Nor let the train me,blasé, bearAway from city chafe and care.To breezy braes, from street and square,Who would not, an he could, be hieing;Away from city chafe and care,At forty miles an hour flying?How nice a month on moors to passMid purling becks and purpling heather,To give the grouse theircoup de grâce,How nice a month on moors to pass!If Fortune prove a liberal lass,If but auspicious be the weather,How nice a month on moors to pass,Mid purling brooks and purpling heather.Plague take the rain! upon my word,These mountain mists, how they do hover!I wish from town I'd never stirred.Plague take the rain! upon my word,'Tis just my luck, and not a birdMy guileless gun contrives to cover.Plague take the rain! upon my word,These mountain mists, how theydohover.
Away from city chafe and care,At forty miles an hour flying,Nor let the train me,blasé, bearAway from city chafe and care.To breezy braes, from street and square,Who would not, an he could, be hieing;Away from city chafe and care,At forty miles an hour flying?
How nice a month on moors to passMid purling becks and purpling heather,To give the grouse theircoup de grâce,How nice a month on moors to pass!If Fortune prove a liberal lass,If but auspicious be the weather,How nice a month on moors to pass,Mid purling brooks and purpling heather.
Plague take the rain! upon my word,These mountain mists, how they do hover!I wish from town I'd never stirred.Plague take the rain! upon my word,'Tis just my luck, and not a birdMy guileless gun contrives to cover.Plague take the rain! upon my word,These mountain mists, how theydohover.
Cotsford Dick.
(Triolets.)
Rose kissed me to-day,Will she kiss me to-morrow?Let it be as it may,Rose kissed me to-day.But the pleasure gives wayTo a savour of sorrow;—Rose kissed me to-day,—Willshe kiss me to-morrow?
Rose kissed me to-day,Will she kiss me to-morrow?Let it be as it may,Rose kissed me to-day.But the pleasure gives wayTo a savour of sorrow;—Rose kissed me to-day,—Willshe kiss me to-morrow?
In the School of CoquettesMadam Rose is a scholar:-O, they fish with all nets,In the School of Coquettes!When her brooch she forgets,'Tis to show her new collar;In the School of CoquettesMadam Rose is a scholar!
In the School of CoquettesMadam Rose is a scholar:-O, they fish with all nets,In the School of Coquettes!When her brooch she forgets,'Tis to show her new collar;In the School of CoquettesMadam Rose is a scholar!
There's a tear in her eye,-Such a clear little jewel!Whatcanmake her cry?There's a tear in her eye."Puck has killed a big fly,—And it'shorriblycruel;"There's a tear in her eye,—Such a clear little jewel!
There's a tear in her eye,-Such a clear little jewel!Whatcanmake her cry?There's a tear in her eye."Puck has killed a big fly,—And it'shorriblycruel;"There's a tear in her eye,—Such a clear little jewel!
Here's a present for Rose,How pleased she is looking!Is it verse? Is it prose?Here's a present for Rose!"Plats," "Entrees" and "Rôts,"—Why, its "Gouffé on Cooking!"Here'sa present for Rose,Howpleasedshe is looking!
Here's a present for Rose,How pleased she is looking!Is it verse? Is it prose?Here's a present for Rose!"Plats," "Entrees" and "Rôts,"—Why, its "Gouffé on Cooking!"Here'sa present for Rose,Howpleasedshe is looking!
I intended an Ode,And it turned to a Sonnet,It beganà la mode,I intended an Ode;But Rose crossed the roadIn her latest new bonnet.I intended an Ode,And it turned to a Sonnet.
I intended an Ode,And it turned to a Sonnet,It beganà la mode,I intended an Ode;But Rose crossed the roadIn her latest new bonnet.I intended an Ode,And it turned to a Sonnet.
Oh, Love's but a dance,Where Time plays the fiddle!See the couples advance,—Oh! Love's but a dance!A whisper, a glance,—'Shall we twirl down the middle?'Oh, Love's but a dance,Where Time plays the fiddle!
Oh, Love's but a dance,Where Time plays the fiddle!See the couples advance,—Oh! Love's but a dance!A whisper, a glance,—'Shall we twirl down the middle?'Oh, Love's but a dance,Where Time plays the fiddle!
Austin Dobson.
"Jucundum, mea vita."
Happy, my Life, the love you proffer,Eternal as the gods above;With such a wealth within my coffer,Happy my life. The love you proffer,—If your true heart sustains the offer,-Will prove the Koh-i-noor of love;Happy my life! The love you proffer,Eternal as the gods above!
Happy, my Life, the love you proffer,Eternal as the gods above;With such a wealth within my coffer,Happy my life. The love you proffer,—If your true heart sustains the offer,-Will prove the Koh-i-noor of love;Happy my life! The love you proffer,Eternal as the gods above!
Edmund Gosse.
Easy is the Triolet,If you really learn to make it!Once a neat refrain you get,Easy is the Triolet.As you see!-I pay my debtWith another rhyme. Deuce take it,Easy is the Triolet,If you really learn to make it!
Easy is the Triolet,If you really learn to make it!Once a neat refrain you get,Easy is the Triolet.As you see!-I pay my debtWith another rhyme. Deuce take it,Easy is the Triolet,If you really learn to make it!
W. E. Henley.
Out from the leaves of my "Lucille"Falls a faded violet.Sweet and faint as its fragrance, stealOut from the leaves of my "Lucille"Tender memories, and I feelA sense of longing and regret.Out from the leaves of my "Lucille"Falls a faded violet.
Out from the leaves of my "Lucille"Falls a faded violet.Sweet and faint as its fragrance, stealOut from the leaves of my "Lucille"Tender memories, and I feelA sense of longing and regret.Out from the leaves of my "Lucille"Falls a faded violet.
Walter Learned.
In the days of my youthI wooed woman with sonnets.My ideas were uncouthIn the days of my youth.Now I know that her ruthIs best reached by new bonnets;In the days of my youthI wooed woman with sonnets.
In the days of my youthI wooed woman with sonnets.My ideas were uncouthIn the days of my youth.Now I know that her ruthIs best reached by new bonnets;In the days of my youthI wooed woman with sonnets.
Here's a flower for your grave,Little love of last year;Since I once was your slave,Here's a flower for your grave;Since I once used to raveIn the praise of my dear,Here's a flower for your grave,Little love of last year.
Here's a flower for your grave,Little love of last year;Since I once was your slave,Here's a flower for your grave;Since I once used to raveIn the praise of my dear,Here's a flower for your grave,Little love of last year.
Lo, my heart, so sound asleep,Lady! will you wake it?For lost love I used to weep,Now my heart is sound asleep,If it once were yours to keep,I fear you'd break it.Lo! my heart, so sound asleep,Lady, will you wake it?
Lo, my heart, so sound asleep,Lady! will you wake it?For lost love I used to weep,Now my heart is sound asleep,If it once were yours to keep,I fear you'd break it.Lo! my heart, so sound asleep,Lady, will you wake it?
Justin Huntly McCarthy.
Myrtilla, to-night,Wears Jacqueminot roses,She's the loveliest sight!Myrtilla, to-night:-Correspondingly lightMy pocket-book closes.Myrtilla, to-nightWears Jacqueminot roses.
Myrtilla, to-night,Wears Jacqueminot roses,She's the loveliest sight!Myrtilla, to-night:-Correspondingly lightMy pocket-book closes.Myrtilla, to-nightWears Jacqueminot roses.
Wee shallop of shimmering gold!Slip down from your ways in the branches.Some fairy will loosen your hold-Wee shallop of shimmering goldSpill dew on your bows and unfoldSilk sails for the fairest of launches!Wee shallop of shimmering gold,Slip down from your ways in the branches.
Wee shallop of shimmering gold!Slip down from your ways in the branches.Some fairy will loosen your hold-Wee shallop of shimmering goldSpill dew on your bows and unfoldSilk sails for the fairest of launches!Wee shallop of shimmering gold,Slip down from your ways in the branches.
You ask me what's a kiss?'Tis Cupid's keenest arrow!A thing to take a "miss"-(You ask me what's a kiss?)The brink of an abyss!A lover's pathway, narrow.You ask me what's akiss?'Tis Cupid'skeenestarrow!
You ask me what's a kiss?'Tis Cupid's keenest arrow!A thing to take a "miss"-(You ask me what's a kiss?)The brink of an abyss!A lover's pathway, narrow.You ask me what's akiss?'Tis Cupid'skeenestarrow!
C. H. Lüders.
You know it is late,And the night's growing colder,Still you lean o'er the gate.You know it is late,There's a fire in the grate,Ah! sweetheart, be bolder.You know it is late,And the night's growing colder.
You know it is late,And the night's growing colder,Still you lean o'er the gate.You know it is late,There's a fire in the grate,Ah! sweetheart, be bolder.You know it is late,And the night's growing colder.
The "Century."
Under the sunThere's nothing new;Poem or pun,Under the sun,Said Solomon,And he said true.Under the sunThere's nothing new.
Under the sunThere's nothing new;Poem or pun,Under the sun,Said Solomon,And he said true.Under the sunThere's nothing new.
"Love in Idleness."
Why is the moonAwake when thou sleepest?To the nightingale's tuneWhy is the moonMaking a noonWhen night is the deepest?Why is the moonAwake when thou sleepest?
Why is the moonAwake when thou sleepest?To the nightingale's tuneWhy is the moonMaking a noonWhen night is the deepest?Why is the moonAwake when thou sleepest?
George Macdonald.
Few in joy's sweet riotAble are to listen:Thou, to make me quiet,Quenchest the sweet riot,Tak'st away my diet,Puttest me in prison-Quenchest joy's sweet riotThat the heart may listen.
Few in joy's sweet riotAble are to listen:Thou, to make me quiet,Quenchest the sweet riot,Tak'st away my diet,Puttest me in prison-Quenchest joy's sweet riotThat the heart may listen.
Spring sits on her nest,Daisies and white clover;And young love lies at restIn the Spring's white nest,For she loves me best,And the cold is over;Spring sits on her nest,Daisies and white clover.
Spring sits on her nest,Daisies and white clover;And young love lies at restIn the Spring's white nest,For she loves me best,And the cold is over;Spring sits on her nest,Daisies and white clover.
In his arms thy silly lambLo! he gathers to his breast!See, thou sadly bleating dam,See him lift thy silly lamb!Hear it cry, "How blest I am!-Here is love and love is rest,"In his arms thy silly lambSee him gather to his breast!
In his arms thy silly lambLo! he gathers to his breast!See, thou sadly bleating dam,See him lift thy silly lamb!Hear it cry, "How blest I am!-Here is love and love is rest,"In his arms thy silly lambSee him gather to his breast!
George Macdonald.