I was very coldIn the summer weather;The sun shone all his gold,But I was very cold-Alone, we were grown old,Love and I together!-Oh, but I was coldIn the summer weather!
I was very coldIn the summer weather;The sun shone all his gold,But I was very cold-Alone, we were grown old,Love and I together!-Oh, but I was coldIn the summer weather!
Sudden I grew warmer,When the brooks were frozen:-"To be angry is to harm her,"I said, and straight grew warmer."Better men, the charmerKnows at least a dozen!"-I said, and straight grew warmer,Though the brooks were frozen.
Sudden I grew warmer,When the brooks were frozen:-"To be angry is to harm her,"I said, and straight grew warmer."Better men, the charmerKnows at least a dozen!"-I said, and straight grew warmer,Though the brooks were frozen.
Spring sits on her nest-Daisies and white clover;And my heart at restLies in the spring's young nest:My love she loves me best,And the frost is over!Spring sits on her nest-Daisies and white clover!
Spring sits on her nest-Daisies and white clover;And my heart at restLies in the spring's young nest:My love she loves me best,And the frost is over!Spring sits on her nest-Daisies and white clover!
George Macdonald.
If I should steal a little kiss,Oh, would she weep, I wonder?I tremble at the thought of bliss,-If I should steal a little kiss!Such pouting lips would never missThe dainty bit of plunder;If I should steal a little kiss,Oh, would she weep, I wonder?
If I should steal a little kiss,Oh, would she weep, I wonder?I tremble at the thought of bliss,-If I should steal a little kiss!Such pouting lips would never missThe dainty bit of plunder;If I should steal a little kiss,Oh, would she weep, I wonder?
He longs to steal a kiss of mine—He may, if he'll return it:If I can read the tender sign,He longs to steal a kiss of mine;"In love and war"—you know the lineWhy cannot he discern it?He longs to steal a kiss of mine—He may if he'll return it.
He longs to steal a kiss of mine—He may, if he'll return it:If I can read the tender sign,He longs to steal a kiss of mine;"In love and war"—you know the lineWhy cannot he discern it?He longs to steal a kiss of mine—He may if he'll return it.
A little kiss when no one sees,Where is the impropriety?How sweet amid the birds and beesA little kiss when no one sees!Nor is it wrong, the world agrees,If taken with sobriety.A little kiss when no one sees,Where is the impropriety?
A little kiss when no one sees,Where is the impropriety?How sweet amid the birds and beesA little kiss when no one sees!Nor is it wrong, the world agrees,If taken with sobriety.A little kiss when no one sees,Where is the impropriety?
Samuel Minturn Peck.
Warm from the wall she chose a peach,She took the wasps for councillors;She said, "Such little things can teach;"Warm from the wall she chose a peach;She waved the fruit within my reach,Then passed it to a friend of hers:—Warm from the wall she chose a peach,She took the wasps for councillors.
Warm from the wall she chose a peach,She took the wasps for councillors;She said, "Such little things can teach;"Warm from the wall she chose a peach;She waved the fruit within my reach,Then passed it to a friend of hers:—Warm from the wall she chose a peach,She took the wasps for councillors.
Emily Pfeiffer.
This kiss upon your fan I press,Ah! Saint Nitouche, you don't refuse it,And may it from its soft recess,This kiss upon your fan I pressBe blown to you a shy caressBy this white down whene'er you use it;This kiss upon your fan I press,Ah! Saint Nitouche, you don't refuse it.
This kiss upon your fan I press,Ah! Saint Nitouche, you don't refuse it,And may it from its soft recess,This kiss upon your fan I pressBe blown to you a shy caressBy this white down whene'er you use it;This kiss upon your fan I press,Ah! Saint Nitouche, you don't refuse it.
To kiss a fan!What a poky poet!The stupid manTo kiss a fan,When he knows that—he—can,Or ought to know it.To kiss a fan!What a poky poet!
To kiss a fan!What a poky poet!The stupid manTo kiss a fan,When he knows that—he—can,Or ought to know it.To kiss a fan!What a poky poet!
Harrison Robertson.
If you never write verses yourself,Dear reader, I leave it with you,You will grant a half-inch of your shelf,If you never write verses yourself.It was praised by some lenient elf,It was damned by a heavy review;If you never write verses yourself,Dear reader, I leave it with you.
If you never write verses yourself,Dear reader, I leave it with you,You will grant a half-inch of your shelf,If you never write verses yourself.It was praised by some lenient elf,It was damned by a heavy review;If you never write verses yourself,Dear reader, I leave it with you.
Ices—Programmes—Lemonade!'E thinks 'e's a Hirving, my eye!Why, Pussy, you're crying: afraid?Ices—Programmes—Lemonade!It's the first time you've seen a piece played?Its pretty, but, Pussy, don't cry.Ices—Programmes—Lemonade!'E thinks 'e's a Hirving, my eye!
Ices—Programmes—Lemonade!'E thinks 'e's a Hirving, my eye!Why, Pussy, you're crying: afraid?Ices—Programmes—Lemonade!It's the first time you've seen a piece played?Its pretty, but, Pussy, don't cry.Ices—Programmes—Lemonade!'E thinks 'e's a Hirving, my eye!
I killed her? Ah, why do they cheer?Are those twenty years gone to-day?Why, she was my wife, sir, dear-so dear.I killed her? Ah, why do they cheer?... Ah hound! He was shaking with fear,And I rushed—with a knife, they say....I killed her? Ah, why do they cheer?Are those twenty years gone to-day?
I killed her? Ah, why do they cheer?Are those twenty years gone to-day?Why, she was my wife, sir, dear-so dear.I killed her? Ah, why do they cheer?... Ah hound! He was shaking with fear,And I rushed—with a knife, they say....I killed her? Ah, why do they cheer?Are those twenty years gone to-day?
[v.Police Reports of the release of George Hall from Birmingham prison.]
[v.Police Reports of the release of George Hall from Birmingham prison.]
Down 'Ob'n, sir? Circus, Bank, Bank!'Ere's a huproar, my bloomin', hoff side!A flower, miss? Ah, thankee, miss, thank-Down 'Ob'n, sir? Circus, Bank, Bank!'Igher up! 'Ullo, Bill, wot a prank!If that 'ere old carcase aint shied!Down 'Ob'n, sir? Circus, Bank, Bank!'Ere's a huproar, my bloomin', hoff side!
Down 'Ob'n, sir? Circus, Bank, Bank!'Ere's a huproar, my bloomin', hoff side!A flower, miss? Ah, thankee, miss, thank-Down 'Ob'n, sir? Circus, Bank, Bank!'Igher up! 'Ullo, Bill, wot a prank!If that 'ere old carcase aint shied!Down 'Ob'n, sir? Circus, Bank, Bank!'Ere's a huproar, my bloomin', hoff side!
Fine Violets! fresh Violets! come buy!Ah, rich man! I would not be you.All spring-time it haunts me, that cry:-Fine Violets! fresh Violets! come buy!Whose loss if she tell me a lie?"They're starving; my God, sir, it's true."Fine Violets! fresh Violets! come buy!Ah, rich man! I would not be you!
Fine Violets! fresh Violets! come buy!Ah, rich man! I would not be you.All spring-time it haunts me, that cry:-Fine Violets! fresh Violets! come buy!Whose loss if she tell me a lie?"They're starving; my God, sir, it's true."Fine Violets! fresh Violets! come buy!Ah, rich man! I would not be you!
Cigar lights! yer honour? Cigar lights?May God forget you in your need.Ay, damn you! if folks get their rights(Cigar lights! yer honour?-cigar lights)Their babies shan't starve in the nightsFor wanting the price of your weed-Cigar lights! yer honour? Cigar lights!May God forget you in your need!
Cigar lights! yer honour? Cigar lights?May God forget you in your need.Ay, damn you! if folks get their rights(Cigar lights! yer honour?-cigar lights)Their babies shan't starve in the nightsFor wanting the price of your weed-Cigar lights! yer honour? Cigar lights!May God forget you in your need!
Ernest Radford.
Since I am her's and she is mineWe live in Love and fear no change!For Love is God, so we divine.Since I am her's and she is mine,In some fair love-land far and fine,Through golden years our feet shall range.Since I am her's and she is mine,We live in Love and fear no change.Why dost thou look so pale, my Love?Why dost thou sigh and say Farewell?"These myrtles seem a cypress grove."Why dost thou look so pale, my Love?"I hear the raven, not the dove,And for the marriage-peal, a knell."Why dost thou look so pale, my Love?Why dost thou sigh and say Farewell?"Since I can never come again,When I am dead and gone from here,Grieve not for me; all grief's in vain,Since I can never come again;But let no thought of me remain.With my last kiss give thy last tear,Since I can never come again,When I am dead and gone from here."All the night and all the dayI think upon her lying dead,With lips that neither kiss nor prayAll the night nor all the day.In that dark grave whose only rayOf sun or moon's her golden head,All the night and all the dayI think upon her lying dead.Why should I live alone,Since Love was all in vain?My heart to thine is flown-Why should I live alone?Dost thou too make thy moan,In Paradise complain:Why should I live alone,Since Love was all in vain?What can heal a broken heart?Death alone, I fear me,Thou that dost true lovers part,What can heal a broken heart?Death alone, that made the smart,Death, that will not hear me.What can heal a broken heart?Death alone, I fear me.
Since I am her's and she is mineWe live in Love and fear no change!For Love is God, so we divine.Since I am her's and she is mine,In some fair love-land far and fine,Through golden years our feet shall range.Since I am her's and she is mine,We live in Love and fear no change.
Why dost thou look so pale, my Love?Why dost thou sigh and say Farewell?"These myrtles seem a cypress grove."Why dost thou look so pale, my Love?"I hear the raven, not the dove,And for the marriage-peal, a knell."Why dost thou look so pale, my Love?Why dost thou sigh and say Farewell?
"Since I can never come again,When I am dead and gone from here,Grieve not for me; all grief's in vain,Since I can never come again;But let no thought of me remain.With my last kiss give thy last tear,Since I can never come again,When I am dead and gone from here."
All the night and all the dayI think upon her lying dead,With lips that neither kiss nor prayAll the night nor all the day.In that dark grave whose only rayOf sun or moon's her golden head,All the night and all the dayI think upon her lying dead.
Why should I live alone,Since Love was all in vain?My heart to thine is flown-Why should I live alone?Dost thou too make thy moan,In Paradise complain:Why should I live alone,Since Love was all in vain?
What can heal a broken heart?Death alone, I fear me,Thou that dost true lovers part,What can heal a broken heart?Death alone, that made the smart,Death, that will not hear me.What can heal a broken heart?Death alone, I fear me.
A. Mary F. Robinson.
I saw a snowflake in the airWhen smiling May had decked the year,And then 'twas gone, I knew not where,—I saw a snowflake in the air,And thought perchance an angel's prayerHad fallen from some starry sphere;I saw a snowflake in the airWhen smiling May had decked the year.
I saw a snowflake in the airWhen smiling May had decked the year,And then 'twas gone, I knew not where,—I saw a snowflake in the air,And thought perchance an angel's prayerHad fallen from some starry sphere;I saw a snowflake in the airWhen smiling May had decked the year.
Clinton Scollard.
The sermon was longAnd the preacher was prosy.Dou you think it was wrong?The sermon was long,The temptation was strong,Her cheeks were so rosy.The sermon was longAnd the preacher was prosy.
The sermon was longAnd the preacher was prosy.Dou you think it was wrong?The sermon was long,The temptation was strong,Her cheeks were so rosy.The sermon was longAnd the preacher was prosy.
The Century Magazine.
She was cargo and crew,She was boatswain and skipper,She was passenger tooOf theNutshellcanoe;And the eyes were so blueOf this sweet tiny tripper!She was cargo and crew,She was boatswain and skipper!
She was cargo and crew,She was boatswain and skipper,She was passenger tooOf theNutshellcanoe;And the eyes were so blueOf this sweet tiny tripper!She was cargo and crew,She was boatswain and skipper!
How I bawled "Ship, ahoy!"Hard by Medmenham Ferry!And she answered with joy,She moved like a convoy,And would love to employA bold pilot so merry.How I bawled "Ship, ahoy!"Hard by Medmenham Ferry!
How I bawled "Ship, ahoy!"Hard by Medmenham Ferry!And she answered with joy,She moved like a convoy,And would love to employA bold pilot so merry.How I bawled "Ship, ahoy!"Hard by Medmenham Ferry!
'Neath the trees gold and redIn that bright autumn weather,When our white sails were spreadO'er the waters we sped-What was it she said?When we drifted together!'Neath the trees gold and redIn that bright autumn weather!
'Neath the trees gold and redIn that bright autumn weather,When our white sails were spreadO'er the waters we sped-What was it she said?When we drifted together!'Neath the trees gold and redIn that bright autumn weather!
Ah! the moments flew fast,But our trip too soon ended!When we reached land at last,And our craft was made fast,It was six or half-past-And Mama looked offended!Ah! the moments flew fast,But our trip too soon ended.
Ah! the moments flew fast,But our trip too soon ended!When we reached land at last,And our craft was made fast,It was six or half-past-And Mama looked offended!Ah! the moments flew fast,But our trip too soon ended.
J. Ashby Sterry.
I saw her shadow on the grassThat day we walked together.Across the field where the pond wasI saw her shadow on the grass.And now I sigh and say, Alas!That e'er in summer weatherI saw her shadow on the grassThat day we walked together!
I saw her shadow on the grassThat day we walked together.Across the field where the pond wasI saw her shadow on the grass.And now I sigh and say, Alas!That e'er in summer weatherI saw her shadow on the grassThat day we walked together!
Hope bowed his head in sleep:Ah me and wellaway!Although I cannot weep,Hope bowed his head in sleep.The heavy hours creep:When is the break of day?Hope bowed his head in sleep,Ah me and wellaway!
Hope bowed his head in sleep:Ah me and wellaway!Although I cannot weep,Hope bowed his head in sleep.The heavy hours creep:When is the break of day?Hope bowed his head in sleep,Ah me and wellaway!
The sea on the beachFlung the foam of its ire.We watched without speechThe sea on the beach,And we clung each to eachAs the tempest shrilled higherAnd the sea on the beachFlung the foam of its ire.
The sea on the beachFlung the foam of its ire.We watched without speechThe sea on the beach,And we clung each to eachAs the tempest shrilled higherAnd the sea on the beachFlung the foam of its ire.
When Love is once deadWho shall awake him?Bitter our breadWhen Love is once deadHis comforts are fled,His favours forsake him.When Love is once deadWho shall awake him?
When Love is once deadWho shall awake him?Bitter our breadWhen Love is once deadHis comforts are fled,His favours forsake him.When Love is once deadWho shall awake him?
Love is a swallowFlitting with spring:Though we would follow,Love is a swallow,All his vows hollow:Than let us sing,Love is a swallowFlitting with spring.
Love is a swallowFlitting with spring:Though we would follow,Love is a swallow,All his vows hollow:Than let us sing,Love is a swallowFlitting with spring.
Arthur Symons.
A poor cicala, piping shrill,I may not ape the Nightingale,I sit upon the sun-browned hill,A poor cicala, piping shrillWhen summer noon is warm and still,Content to chirp my homely tale;A poor cicala piping shrill,I may not ape the Nightingale.
A poor cicala, piping shrill,I may not ape the Nightingale,I sit upon the sun-browned hill,A poor cicala, piping shrillWhen summer noon is warm and still,Content to chirp my homely tale;A poor cicala piping shrill,I may not ape the Nightingale.
Graham R. Tomson.
Love's footsteps shall not fail nor faint,He will not leave our hearth again:So safely lulled his murmuring plaint,Love's footsteps shall not fail nor faint;All clasped and bound in fond constraint,And circled with a shining chain,Love's footsteps shall not fail nor faint,He will not leave our hearth again.
Love's footsteps shall not fail nor faint,He will not leave our hearth again:So safely lulled his murmuring plaint,Love's footsteps shall not fail nor faint;All clasped and bound in fond constraint,And circled with a shining chain,Love's footsteps shall not fail nor faint,He will not leave our hearth again.
Your rose-red bonds are all in vain,If bound Love weep for weariness:His faded eyes are drowned in rain.Your rose-red bonds are all in vain,He murmurs low a dull refrain,And turns his lips from our caress-Your rose-red bonds are all in vainIf bound Love weep for weariness!
Your rose-red bonds are all in vain,If bound Love weep for weariness:His faded eyes are drowned in rain.Your rose-red bonds are all in vain,He murmurs low a dull refrain,And turns his lips from our caress-Your rose-red bonds are all in vainIf bound Love weep for weariness!
That grey, last day we said goodbyeMakes winter weather in my heart;Dull cloud wreaths veiled our summer skyThat grey, last day we said goodbyeAnd loosed faint love; I wonder why(Forthen, in truth, 'twas well to part)That grey, last day we said goodbyeMakes wintry weather in my heart.
That grey, last day we said goodbyeMakes winter weather in my heart;Dull cloud wreaths veiled our summer skyThat grey, last day we said goodbyeAnd loosed faint love; I wonder why(Forthen, in truth, 'twas well to part)That grey, last day we said goodbyeMakes wintry weather in my heart.
Graham R. Tomson.
The roses are dead,And swallows are flying:White, golden, and red,The roses are dead;Yet tenderly treadWhere their petals are lying.The roses are dead,And swallows are flying.
The roses are dead,And swallows are flying:White, golden, and red,The roses are dead;Yet tenderly treadWhere their petals are lying.The roses are dead,And swallows are flying.
Graham R. Tomson.
You've spoken of love,And I've answered with laughter;You've kissed—my kid glove.You've spoken of love.Why! powers above?Is there more to come after.You've spoken of loveAnd I've answered with laughter.Her lips were so nearThat—what else could I do?You'll be angry, I fear,Her lips were so near.Well, I can't make it clearOr explain it to you.Her lips were so nearThat—what else could I do?
You've spoken of love,And I've answered with laughter;You've kissed—my kid glove.You've spoken of love.Why! powers above?Is there more to come after.You've spoken of loveAnd I've answered with laughter.
Her lips were so nearThat—what else could I do?You'll be angry, I fear,Her lips were so near.Well, I can't make it clearOr explain it to you.Her lips were so nearThat—what else could I do?
From "The Century."
My love of loves—my May,In rippling shadows lying,Was sleeping mid the hay—My love of loves—my May!The ardent sun was tryingTo kiss her dreams away!My love of loves—my May,In rippling shadows lying.I knelt and kissed her lips,Sweeter than any flowerThe bee for honey sips!I knelt and kissed her lips,—And as her dark eyes' powerAwoke from sleep's eclipse,I knelt and kissed her lips,Sweeter than any flower!The pair of gloves I won,My darling pays in kisses!Long may the sweet debt run—The pair of gloves I won!Till death our loves dismissesThis feud will ne'er be done—The pair of gloves I won,My darling pays in kisses!
My love of loves—my May,In rippling shadows lying,Was sleeping mid the hay—My love of loves—my May!The ardent sun was tryingTo kiss her dreams away!My love of loves—my May,In rippling shadows lying.
I knelt and kissed her lips,Sweeter than any flowerThe bee for honey sips!I knelt and kissed her lips,—And as her dark eyes' powerAwoke from sleep's eclipse,I knelt and kissed her lips,Sweeter than any flower!
The pair of gloves I won,My darling pays in kisses!Long may the sweet debt run—The pair of gloves I won!Till death our loves dismissesThis feud will ne'er be done—The pair of gloves I won,My darling pays in kisses!
C. H. Waring.
A Trio of Triolets.
O the apples rosy-red!O the gnarled trunks grey and brown,Heavy-branchèd overhead!O the apples rosy-red!O the merry laughter sped,As the fruit is showered down!O the apples rosy-red!O the gnarled trunks grey and brown!O the blushes rosy-red!O the loving autumn breeze!O the words so softly said!O the blushes rosy-red,While old doubts and fears lie dead,Buried 'neath the apple-trees!O the blushes rosy-red!O the loving autumn breeze!O the years so swiftly fled!O twin hearts that beat as one,With a love time-strengthenèd!O the years so swiftly fled!O the apples rosy-red,That still ripen in the sun!O the years so swiftly fled!O twin hearts that beat as one!
O the apples rosy-red!O the gnarled trunks grey and brown,Heavy-branchèd overhead!O the apples rosy-red!O the merry laughter sped,As the fruit is showered down!O the apples rosy-red!O the gnarled trunks grey and brown!
O the blushes rosy-red!O the loving autumn breeze!O the words so softly said!O the blushes rosy-red,While old doubts and fears lie dead,Buried 'neath the apple-trees!O the blushes rosy-red!O the loving autumn breeze!
O the years so swiftly fled!O twin hearts that beat as one,With a love time-strengthenèd!O the years so swiftly fled!O the apples rosy-red,That still ripen in the sun!O the years so swiftly fled!O twin hearts that beat as one!
George Weatherly.
J'ay perdu ma tourterelle;Est-ce-point elle que i'oy?[10]Je veux aller après elle.Tu regrettes ta femelle;Hélas! aussy fay-je moy:J'ay perdu ma tourterelle.Si ton amour est fidèle,Aussy est ferme ma foy;Je veux aller après elle.Ta plainte se renouvelle?Toujours plaindre je me doy:J'ay perdu ma tourterelle.En ne voyant plus la bellePlus rien de beau je ne voy:Je veux aller après elle.Mort, que tant de fois j'appellePrens ce qui se donne à toy:J'ai perdu ma tourterelle,Je veux aller après elle.
J'ay perdu ma tourterelle;Est-ce-point elle que i'oy?[10]Je veux aller après elle.
Tu regrettes ta femelle;Hélas! aussy fay-je moy:J'ay perdu ma tourterelle.
Si ton amour est fidèle,Aussy est ferme ma foy;Je veux aller après elle.
Ta plainte se renouvelle?Toujours plaindre je me doy:J'ay perdu ma tourterelle.
En ne voyant plus la bellePlus rien de beau je ne voy:Je veux aller après elle.
Mort, que tant de fois j'appellePrens ce qui se donne à toy:J'ai perdu ma tourterelle,Je veux aller après elle.
—Jean Passerat.
[10]J'entends.
[10]J'entends.
There are roses white, there are roses red,Shyly rosy, tenderly white;-Which shall I choose to wreathe my head?Which shall I cull from the garden-bedTo greet my love on this very night?There are roses white, there are roses red.The red should say what I would have said;Ah! how they blush in the evening light!Which shall I choose to wreathe my head?The white are pale as the snow new-spread,Pure as young eyes and half as bright;There are roses white, there are roses red.Roses white, from the heaven dew-fed,Roses red for a passion's plight;Which shall I choose to wreathe my head?Summer twilight is almost fled,Say, dear love! have I chosen right?There are roses white, there are roses red,All twined together to wreathe my head.
There are roses white, there are roses red,Shyly rosy, tenderly white;-Which shall I choose to wreathe my head?
Which shall I cull from the garden-bedTo greet my love on this very night?There are roses white, there are roses red.
The red should say what I would have said;Ah! how they blush in the evening light!Which shall I choose to wreathe my head?
The white are pale as the snow new-spread,Pure as young eyes and half as bright;There are roses white, there are roses red.
Roses white, from the heaven dew-fed,Roses red for a passion's plight;Which shall I choose to wreathe my head?
Summer twilight is almost fled,Say, dear love! have I chosen right?There are roses white, there are roses red,All twined together to wreathe my head.
L. S. Bevington.
O Halcyon hours of happy holiday,When frets of function and of fashion flee,(Sweet is the sunshine, soft the summer's sway).Ye whisper 'welcome' to our wandering way,And give a gracious greeting to our glee,O halcyon hours of happy holiday!Or pacing prairies in pursuit of prey,Or sailing silent on a southern sea,(Sweet is the sunshine, soft the summer's sway),Or gliding giddy down some glacier gray,Or joining in a German jubilee,O halcyon hours of happy holiday!We breathe such buoyant bliss that we betrayOur sportive spirits strangely-sans souciSweet is the sunshine, soft the summer's sway,And dear the dreaming of these daysdistraitsWe find we ye, sofainéantsand free,O halcyon hours of happy holiday!
O Halcyon hours of happy holiday,When frets of function and of fashion flee,(Sweet is the sunshine, soft the summer's sway).Ye whisper 'welcome' to our wandering way,And give a gracious greeting to our glee,O halcyon hours of happy holiday!
Or pacing prairies in pursuit of prey,Or sailing silent on a southern sea,(Sweet is the sunshine, soft the summer's sway),Or gliding giddy down some glacier gray,Or joining in a German jubilee,O halcyon hours of happy holiday!
We breathe such buoyant bliss that we betrayOur sportive spirits strangely-sans souciSweet is the sunshine, soft the summer's sway,And dear the dreaming of these daysdistraitsWe find we ye, sofainéantsand free,O halcyon hours of happy holiday!
Cotsford Dick.
Seek not, O maid, to know(Alas! unblest the trying!)When thou and I must go.No lore of stars can show.What shall be, vainly prying,Seek not, O maid, to know.Will Jove long years bestow?-Or is't with this one dying,That thou and I must go;Now,-when the great winds blowAnd waves the reef are plying?...Seek not, O maid, to know.Rather let clear wine flow,On no vain hope relying;When thou and I must goLies dark; then be it so.Now,—now, churl Time is flying;Seek not, O maid, to knowWhen thou and I must go.
Seek not, O maid, to know(Alas! unblest the trying!)When thou and I must go.
No lore of stars can show.What shall be, vainly prying,Seek not, O maid, to know.
Will Jove long years bestow?-Or is't with this one dying,That thou and I must go;
Now,-when the great winds blowAnd waves the reef are plying?...Seek not, O maid, to know.
Rather let clear wine flow,On no vain hope relying;When thou and I must go
Lies dark; then be it so.Now,—now, churl Time is flying;Seek not, O maid, to knowWhen thou and I must go.
Austin Dobson.
When I saw you last, Rose,You were only so high;-How fast the time goes!Like a bud ere it blows,You just peeped at the sky,When I saw you last, Rose!Now your petals unclose,Now your May-time is nigh;-How fast the time goes!And a life,-how it grows!You were scarcely so shy,When I saw you last, Rose!In your bosom it showsThere's a guest on the sly;How fast the time goes!Is it Cupid? Who knows!Yet you used not to sigh,When I saw you last, Rose;-How fast the time goes!
When I saw you last, Rose,You were only so high;-How fast the time goes!
Like a bud ere it blows,You just peeped at the sky,When I saw you last, Rose!
Now your petals unclose,Now your May-time is nigh;-How fast the time goes!
And a life,-how it grows!You were scarcely so shy,When I saw you last, Rose!
In your bosom it showsThere's a guest on the sly;How fast the time goes!
Is it Cupid? Who knows!Yet you used not to sigh,When I saw you last, Rose;-How fast the time goes!
Austin Dobson.
O singer of the field and fold,Theocritus!Pan's pipe was thine,—Thine was the happier Age of Gold.For thee the scent of new-turned mould,The bee-hives, and the murmuring pine,O singer of the field and fold!Thou sang'st the simple feasts of old,—The beechen bowl made glad with wine ...Thine was the happier Age of Gold!Thou bad'st the rustic loves be told,—Thou bad'st the tuneful reeds combine,O singer of the field and fold!And round thee, ever laughing, rolledThe blithe and blue Sicilian brine ...Thine was the happier Age of Gold.Alas for us! our songs are cold;Our northern suns too sadly shine:—O singer of the field and fold,Thine was the happier Age of Gold.
O singer of the field and fold,Theocritus!Pan's pipe was thine,—Thine was the happier Age of Gold.
For thee the scent of new-turned mould,The bee-hives, and the murmuring pine,O singer of the field and fold!
Thou sang'st the simple feasts of old,—The beechen bowl made glad with wine ...Thine was the happier Age of Gold!
Thou bad'st the rustic loves be told,—Thou bad'st the tuneful reeds combine,O singer of the field and fold!
And round thee, ever laughing, rolledThe blithe and blue Sicilian brine ...Thine was the happier Age of Gold.
Alas for us! our songs are cold;Our northern suns too sadly shine:—O singer of the field and fold,Thine was the happier Age of Gold.
Austin Dobson.
"Ah me, but it might have been!Was there ever so dismal a fate?"—Quoth the little blue mandarin."Such a maid as was never seen!She passed, though I cried to her 'Wait,'—Ah me, but it might have been!"I cried, 'O my Flower, my Queen,Be mine!' 'Twas precipitate,"—Quoth the little blue mandarin,—"But then ... she was just sixteen,—Long-eyed,—as a lily straight,—Ah me, but it might have been!"As it was, from her palankeen,She laughed—'you're a week too late!'"(Quoth the little blue mandarin.)"That is why, in a mist of spleen,I mourn on this Nankin Plate.Ah me, but it might have been!"Quoth the little blue mandarin.
"Ah me, but it might have been!Was there ever so dismal a fate?"—Quoth the little blue mandarin.
"Such a maid as was never seen!She passed, though I cried to her 'Wait,'—Ah me, but it might have been!
"I cried, 'O my Flower, my Queen,Be mine!' 'Twas precipitate,"—Quoth the little blue mandarin,—
"But then ... she was just sixteen,—Long-eyed,—as a lily straight,—Ah me, but it might have been!
"As it was, from her palankeen,She laughed—'you're a week too late!'"(Quoth the little blue mandarin.)
"That is why, in a mist of spleen,I mourn on this Nankin Plate.Ah me, but it might have been!"Quoth the little blue mandarin.
Austin Dobson.
Wouldst thou not be content to dieWhen low-hung fruit is hardly clingingAnd golden autumn passes by?Beneath this delicate rose-gray sky,While sunset bells are faintly ringing,Wouldst thou not be content to die?For wintry webs of mist on highOut of the muffled earth are springing,And golden Autumn passes by.O now when pleasures fade and fly,And Hope her southward flight is winging,Wouldst thou not be content to die?Lest Winter come, with wailing cryHis cruel icy bondage bringing,When golden Autumn hath passed by;And thou with many a tear and sigh,While life her wasted hands is wringing,Shall pray in vain for leave to dieWhen golden Autumn hath passed by.
Wouldst thou not be content to dieWhen low-hung fruit is hardly clingingAnd golden autumn passes by?
Beneath this delicate rose-gray sky,While sunset bells are faintly ringing,Wouldst thou not be content to die?
For wintry webs of mist on highOut of the muffled earth are springing,And golden Autumn passes by.
O now when pleasures fade and fly,And Hope her southward flight is winging,Wouldst thou not be content to die?
Lest Winter come, with wailing cryHis cruel icy bondage bringing,When golden Autumn hath passed by;
And thou with many a tear and sigh,While life her wasted hands is wringing,Shall pray in vain for leave to dieWhen golden Autumn hath passed by.
Edmund Gosse.
Little mistress mine, good-bye!I have been your sparrow true;Dig my grave, for I must die.Waste no tear and heave no sigh,Life should still be blithe for you,Little mistress mine, good-bye!In your garden let me lie;Underneath the pointed yewDig my grave, for I must die.We have loved the quiet skyWith its tender arch of blue;Little mistress mine, good-bye!That I still may feel you nigh,In your virgin bosom, too,Dig my grave, for I must die.Let our garden-friends that flyBe the mourners, fit and few.Little mistress mine, good-bye!Dig my grave, for I must die.
Little mistress mine, good-bye!I have been your sparrow true;Dig my grave, for I must die.
Waste no tear and heave no sigh,Life should still be blithe for you,Little mistress mine, good-bye!
In your garden let me lie;Underneath the pointed yewDig my grave, for I must die.
We have loved the quiet skyWith its tender arch of blue;Little mistress mine, good-bye!
That I still may feel you nigh,In your virgin bosom, too,Dig my grave, for I must die.
Let our garden-friends that flyBe the mourners, fit and few.Little mistress mine, good-bye!Dig my grave, for I must die.
Edmund Gosse.
Where's the use of sighing?Sorrow as you may,Time is always flying-Flying!-and defyingMen to say him nay ...Where's the use of sighing?Look! To-day is dyingAfter yesterday.Time is always flying.Flying—and when cryingCannot make him stay,Where's the use of sighing?Men with by-and-bying,Fritter life away.Time is always flying,Flying!—O, from pryingCease, and go to play.Where's the use of sighing,"Time is always flying?"
Where's the use of sighing?Sorrow as you may,Time is always flying-
Flying!-and defyingMen to say him nay ...Where's the use of sighing?
Look! To-day is dyingAfter yesterday.Time is always flying.
Flying—and when cryingCannot make him stay,Where's the use of sighing?
Men with by-and-bying,Fritter life away.Time is always flying,
Flying!—O, from pryingCease, and go to play.Where's the use of sighing,"Time is always flying?"
W. E. Henley.
A dainty thing's the Villanelle.Sly, musical, a jewel in rhyme,It serves its purpose passing well.A double-clappered silver bellThat must be made to clink in chime,A dainty thing's the Villanelle;And if you wish to flute a spell,Or ask a meeting 'neath the lime,It serves its purpose passing well.You must not ask of it the swellOf organs grandiose and sublime—A dainty thing's the Villanelle;And, filled with sweetness, as a shellIs filled with sound, and launched in time,It serves its purpose passing well.Still fair to see and good to smellAs in the quaintness of its prime,A dainty thing's the Villanelle,It serves its purpose passing well.
A dainty thing's the Villanelle.Sly, musical, a jewel in rhyme,It serves its purpose passing well.
A double-clappered silver bellThat must be made to clink in chime,A dainty thing's the Villanelle;
And if you wish to flute a spell,Or ask a meeting 'neath the lime,It serves its purpose passing well.
You must not ask of it the swellOf organs grandiose and sublime—A dainty thing's the Villanelle;
And, filled with sweetness, as a shellIs filled with sound, and launched in time,It serves its purpose passing well.
Still fair to see and good to smellAs in the quaintness of its prime,A dainty thing's the Villanelle,It serves its purpose passing well.
W. E. Henley.