THE same green hill, the same blue sea,—Yet, love, thou art no more to me!The same long reach of yellow sand,—Where is the touch of thy soft hand?The same wide open arch of sky,—But, sweetheart, thou no more art nigh!God love thee and God keep thee strong:I breathe that pure prayer through my song!I send my soul across the wasteTo seek and find thy soul in haste!Across the inland woods and glades,And through the leaf-laced checkered shades,My spirit passes, seeking thee;No more I tarry by the sea.For where thou art am I for ever;Mere space and time divide us never.George Barlow.
THE same green hill, the same blue sea,—Yet, love, thou art no more to me!The same long reach of yellow sand,—Where is the touch of thy soft hand?The same wide open arch of sky,—But, sweetheart, thou no more art nigh!God love thee and God keep thee strong:I breathe that pure prayer through my song!I send my soul across the wasteTo seek and find thy soul in haste!Across the inland woods and glades,And through the leaf-laced checkered shades,My spirit passes, seeking thee;No more I tarry by the sea.For where thou art am I for ever;Mere space and time divide us never.George Barlow.
THE same green hill, the same blue sea,—Yet, love, thou art no more to me!
The same long reach of yellow sand,—Where is the touch of thy soft hand?
The same wide open arch of sky,—But, sweetheart, thou no more art nigh!
God love thee and God keep thee strong:I breathe that pure prayer through my song!
I send my soul across the wasteTo seek and find thy soul in haste!
Across the inland woods and glades,And through the leaf-laced checkered shades,
My spirit passes, seeking thee;No more I tarry by the sea.
For where thou art am I for ever;Mere space and time divide us never.George Barlow.
IF only a single Rose is left,Why should the summer pine?A blade of grass in a rocky cleft;A single star to shine.—Why should I sorrow if all be lost,If only thou art mine?If only a single Bluebell gleamsBright on the barren heath,Still of that flower the summer dreams,Not of his August wreath.—Why should I sorrow if thou art mine,Love, beyond change and death?If only once on a wintry dayThe sun shines forth in the blue,He gladdens the groves till they laugh as in MayAnd dream of the touch of the dew.—Why should I sorrow if all be false,If only thou art true?George Barlow.
IF only a single Rose is left,Why should the summer pine?A blade of grass in a rocky cleft;A single star to shine.—Why should I sorrow if all be lost,If only thou art mine?If only a single Bluebell gleamsBright on the barren heath,Still of that flower the summer dreams,Not of his August wreath.—Why should I sorrow if thou art mine,Love, beyond change and death?If only once on a wintry dayThe sun shines forth in the blue,He gladdens the groves till they laugh as in MayAnd dream of the touch of the dew.—Why should I sorrow if all be false,If only thou art true?George Barlow.
IF only a single Rose is left,Why should the summer pine?A blade of grass in a rocky cleft;A single star to shine.—Why should I sorrow if all be lost,If only thou art mine?
If only a single Bluebell gleamsBright on the barren heath,Still of that flower the summer dreams,Not of his August wreath.—Why should I sorrow if thou art mine,Love, beyond change and death?
If only once on a wintry dayThe sun shines forth in the blue,He gladdens the groves till they laugh as in MayAnd dream of the touch of the dew.—Why should I sorrow if all be false,If only thou art true?George Barlow.
I’D send a troop of kisses to entangleAnd lose themselves in labyrinths of hair,—Thy deep dark night of hair with stars to spangle,And each, a firefly’s tiny lamp, to dangleAmid the tresses of that forest fair.A perfume seems to blossom into air;The ecstasy that hangs about the tresses,Their blush, their overflow, their breath, their bloom;A wind that gently lifts them and caresses,And wings itself and floats about the room;The beauty that the flame of youth expresses,A tender fire, too tender to consume,Which, seizing all my soul, pervades, possesses,And mingleth in a subtly sweet perfume.George Barlow.
I’D send a troop of kisses to entangleAnd lose themselves in labyrinths of hair,—Thy deep dark night of hair with stars to spangle,And each, a firefly’s tiny lamp, to dangleAmid the tresses of that forest fair.A perfume seems to blossom into air;The ecstasy that hangs about the tresses,Their blush, their overflow, their breath, their bloom;A wind that gently lifts them and caresses,And wings itself and floats about the room;The beauty that the flame of youth expresses,A tender fire, too tender to consume,Which, seizing all my soul, pervades, possesses,And mingleth in a subtly sweet perfume.George Barlow.
I’D send a troop of kisses to entangleAnd lose themselves in labyrinths of hair,—Thy deep dark night of hair with stars to spangle,And each, a firefly’s tiny lamp, to dangleAmid the tresses of that forest fair.A perfume seems to blossom into air;The ecstasy that hangs about the tresses,Their blush, their overflow, their breath, their bloom;A wind that gently lifts them and caresses,And wings itself and floats about the room;The beauty that the flame of youth expresses,A tender fire, too tender to consume,Which, seizing all my soul, pervades, possesses,And mingleth in a subtly sweet perfume.George Barlow.
COME, oh, come to me, voice or look, or spirit or dream, but, oh, come now;All these faces that crowd so thick are pale and cold and dead—Come thou,Scatter them back to the ivory gate and be alone and rule the night.Surely all worlds are nothing to Love, for Love to flash thro’ the night and come;Hither and thither he flies at will, with thee he dwelleth—there is his home.Come, O Love, with a voice, a message; haste, O Love, on thy wings of light.Love, I am calling thee, Love, I am calling; dost thou not hear my crying, sweet?Does not the live air throb with the pain of my beating heart, till thy heart beat?—Surely momently thou wilt be here, surely, O sweet Love, momently.No, my voice would be all too faint, too faint, when it reached Love’s ear, tho’ the night is still,Fainter ever and fainter grown o’er hill and valley and valley and hill,There where thou liest quietly sleeping, and Love keeps watch as the dreams flit by.Ah, my thought so subtle and swift, can it not fly till it reach thy brain,And whisper there some faint regret for a weary watch and a distant pain?—Not too loud, to awake thy slumber; not too tender, to make thee weep;Just so much for thy head to turn on the pillow so, and understandDimly, that a soft caress has come long leagues from a weary land,Turn and half remember and smile, and send a kiss on the wings of sleep.H. C. Beeching.
COME, oh, come to me, voice or look, or spirit or dream, but, oh, come now;All these faces that crowd so thick are pale and cold and dead—Come thou,Scatter them back to the ivory gate and be alone and rule the night.Surely all worlds are nothing to Love, for Love to flash thro’ the night and come;Hither and thither he flies at will, with thee he dwelleth—there is his home.Come, O Love, with a voice, a message; haste, O Love, on thy wings of light.Love, I am calling thee, Love, I am calling; dost thou not hear my crying, sweet?Does not the live air throb with the pain of my beating heart, till thy heart beat?—Surely momently thou wilt be here, surely, O sweet Love, momently.No, my voice would be all too faint, too faint, when it reached Love’s ear, tho’ the night is still,Fainter ever and fainter grown o’er hill and valley and valley and hill,There where thou liest quietly sleeping, and Love keeps watch as the dreams flit by.Ah, my thought so subtle and swift, can it not fly till it reach thy brain,And whisper there some faint regret for a weary watch and a distant pain?—Not too loud, to awake thy slumber; not too tender, to make thee weep;Just so much for thy head to turn on the pillow so, and understandDimly, that a soft caress has come long leagues from a weary land,Turn and half remember and smile, and send a kiss on the wings of sleep.H. C. Beeching.
COME, oh, come to me, voice or look, or spirit or dream, but, oh, come now;All these faces that crowd so thick are pale and cold and dead—Come thou,Scatter them back to the ivory gate and be alone and rule the night.
Surely all worlds are nothing to Love, for Love to flash thro’ the night and come;Hither and thither he flies at will, with thee he dwelleth—there is his home.Come, O Love, with a voice, a message; haste, O Love, on thy wings of light.
Love, I am calling thee, Love, I am calling; dost thou not hear my crying, sweet?Does not the live air throb with the pain of my beating heart, till thy heart beat?—Surely momently thou wilt be here, surely, O sweet Love, momently.
No, my voice would be all too faint, too faint, when it reached Love’s ear, tho’ the night is still,Fainter ever and fainter grown o’er hill and valley and valley and hill,There where thou liest quietly sleeping, and Love keeps watch as the dreams flit by.
Ah, my thought so subtle and swift, can it not fly till it reach thy brain,And whisper there some faint regret for a weary watch and a distant pain?—Not too loud, to awake thy slumber; not too tender, to make thee weep;
Just so much for thy head to turn on the pillow so, and understandDimly, that a soft caress has come long leagues from a weary land,Turn and half remember and smile, and send a kiss on the wings of sleep.H. C. Beeching.
AHUNDRED years from now, dear heart,We will not care at all.It will not matter then a whit,The honey or the gall.The summer days that we have knownWill all forgotten be and flown;The garden will be overgrownWhere now the roses fall.A hundred years from now, dear heart,We will not mind the pain.The throbbing crimson tide of lifeWill not have left a stain.The song we sing together, dear,The dream we dream together here,Will mean no more than means a tearAmid a summer rain.A hundred years from now, dear heart,The grief will all be o’er;The sea of care will surge in vainUpon a careless shore.These glasses we turn down to-dayHere at the parting of the way:We will be wineless then as they,And will not mind it more.A hundred years from now, dear heart,We’ll neither know nor careWhat came of all life’s bitternessOr followed love’s despair.Then fill the glasses up againAnd kiss me through the rose-leaf rain;We’ll build one castle more in Spain,And dream one more dream there.John Bennett.
AHUNDRED years from now, dear heart,We will not care at all.It will not matter then a whit,The honey or the gall.The summer days that we have knownWill all forgotten be and flown;The garden will be overgrownWhere now the roses fall.A hundred years from now, dear heart,We will not mind the pain.The throbbing crimson tide of lifeWill not have left a stain.The song we sing together, dear,The dream we dream together here,Will mean no more than means a tearAmid a summer rain.A hundred years from now, dear heart,The grief will all be o’er;The sea of care will surge in vainUpon a careless shore.These glasses we turn down to-dayHere at the parting of the way:We will be wineless then as they,And will not mind it more.A hundred years from now, dear heart,We’ll neither know nor careWhat came of all life’s bitternessOr followed love’s despair.Then fill the glasses up againAnd kiss me through the rose-leaf rain;We’ll build one castle more in Spain,And dream one more dream there.John Bennett.
AHUNDRED years from now, dear heart,We will not care at all.It will not matter then a whit,The honey or the gall.The summer days that we have knownWill all forgotten be and flown;The garden will be overgrownWhere now the roses fall.
A hundred years from now, dear heart,We will not mind the pain.The throbbing crimson tide of lifeWill not have left a stain.The song we sing together, dear,The dream we dream together here,Will mean no more than means a tearAmid a summer rain.
A hundred years from now, dear heart,The grief will all be o’er;The sea of care will surge in vainUpon a careless shore.These glasses we turn down to-dayHere at the parting of the way:We will be wineless then as they,And will not mind it more.
A hundred years from now, dear heart,We’ll neither know nor careWhat came of all life’s bitternessOr followed love’s despair.Then fill the glasses up againAnd kiss me through the rose-leaf rain;We’ll build one castle more in Spain,And dream one more dream there.John Bennett.
ICHARGE you, O winds of the West, O winds with the wings of the dove,That ye blow o’er the brows of my Love, breathing low that I sicken for love.I charge you, O dews of the dawn, O tears of the star of the morn,That ye fall at the feet of my love, with the sound of one weeping forlorn.I charge you, O birds of the air, O birds flying home to your nest,That ye sing in his ears of the joy that for ever has fled from my breast.I charge you, O flowers of the Earth, O frailest of things, and most fair,That ye droop in his path as the life in me shrivels and droops with despair.O Moon, when he lifts up his face, when he seeth the waning of thee,A memory of her who lies wan on the limits of life let it be.Many tears cannot quench, nor my sighs extinguish the flames of love’s fire,Which lifteth my heart like a wave, and smites it and breaks its desire.I rise like one in a dream; unbidden my feet know the wayTo that garden where love stood in blossom with the red and white hawthorn of May.The song of the throstle is hushed, and the fountain is dry to its core,The moon cometh up as of old; she seeks, but she finds him no more.The pale-faced, pitiful moon shines down on the grass where I weep,My face to the earth, and my breast in an anguish ne’er soothed into sleep.The moon returns, and the spring, birds warble, trees burst into leaf,But love once gone, goes for ever, and all that endures is the grief.Mathilde Blind.
ICHARGE you, O winds of the West, O winds with the wings of the dove,That ye blow o’er the brows of my Love, breathing low that I sicken for love.I charge you, O dews of the dawn, O tears of the star of the morn,That ye fall at the feet of my love, with the sound of one weeping forlorn.I charge you, O birds of the air, O birds flying home to your nest,That ye sing in his ears of the joy that for ever has fled from my breast.I charge you, O flowers of the Earth, O frailest of things, and most fair,That ye droop in his path as the life in me shrivels and droops with despair.O Moon, when he lifts up his face, when he seeth the waning of thee,A memory of her who lies wan on the limits of life let it be.Many tears cannot quench, nor my sighs extinguish the flames of love’s fire,Which lifteth my heart like a wave, and smites it and breaks its desire.I rise like one in a dream; unbidden my feet know the wayTo that garden where love stood in blossom with the red and white hawthorn of May.The song of the throstle is hushed, and the fountain is dry to its core,The moon cometh up as of old; she seeks, but she finds him no more.The pale-faced, pitiful moon shines down on the grass where I weep,My face to the earth, and my breast in an anguish ne’er soothed into sleep.The moon returns, and the spring, birds warble, trees burst into leaf,But love once gone, goes for ever, and all that endures is the grief.Mathilde Blind.
ICHARGE you, O winds of the West, O winds with the wings of the dove,That ye blow o’er the brows of my Love, breathing low that I sicken for love.
I charge you, O dews of the dawn, O tears of the star of the morn,That ye fall at the feet of my love, with the sound of one weeping forlorn.
I charge you, O birds of the air, O birds flying home to your nest,That ye sing in his ears of the joy that for ever has fled from my breast.
I charge you, O flowers of the Earth, O frailest of things, and most fair,That ye droop in his path as the life in me shrivels and droops with despair.
O Moon, when he lifts up his face, when he seeth the waning of thee,A memory of her who lies wan on the limits of life let it be.
Many tears cannot quench, nor my sighs extinguish the flames of love’s fire,Which lifteth my heart like a wave, and smites it and breaks its desire.
I rise like one in a dream; unbidden my feet know the wayTo that garden where love stood in blossom with the red and white hawthorn of May.
The song of the throstle is hushed, and the fountain is dry to its core,The moon cometh up as of old; she seeks, but she finds him no more.
The pale-faced, pitiful moon shines down on the grass where I weep,My face to the earth, and my breast in an anguish ne’er soothed into sleep.
The moon returns, and the spring, birds warble, trees burst into leaf,But love once gone, goes for ever, and all that endures is the grief.Mathilde Blind.
THOU walkest with me as the spirit-lightOf the hushed moon, high o’er a snowy hill,Walks with the houseless traveller all the night,When trees are tongueless and when mute the rill.Moon of my soul, O phantom of delight,Thou walkest with me still.The vestal flame of quenchless memory burnsIn my soul’s sanctuary. Yea, still for theeMy bitter heart hath yearned, as moonward yearnsEach separate wave-pulse of the clamorous sea:My moon of love, to whom for ever turnsThat life that aches through me.Mathilde Blind.
THOU walkest with me as the spirit-lightOf the hushed moon, high o’er a snowy hill,Walks with the houseless traveller all the night,When trees are tongueless and when mute the rill.Moon of my soul, O phantom of delight,Thou walkest with me still.The vestal flame of quenchless memory burnsIn my soul’s sanctuary. Yea, still for theeMy bitter heart hath yearned, as moonward yearnsEach separate wave-pulse of the clamorous sea:My moon of love, to whom for ever turnsThat life that aches through me.Mathilde Blind.
THOU walkest with me as the spirit-lightOf the hushed moon, high o’er a snowy hill,Walks with the houseless traveller all the night,When trees are tongueless and when mute the rill.Moon of my soul, O phantom of delight,Thou walkest with me still.
The vestal flame of quenchless memory burnsIn my soul’s sanctuary. Yea, still for theeMy bitter heart hath yearned, as moonward yearnsEach separate wave-pulse of the clamorous sea:My moon of love, to whom for ever turnsThat life that aches through me.Mathilde Blind.
IF stars were really watching eyesOf angel armies in the skies,I should forget all watchers there,And only for your glances care.And if your eyes were really stars,With leagues that none can mete for barsTo keep me from their longed-for day,I could not feel more far away.F. W. Bourdillon.
IF stars were really watching eyesOf angel armies in the skies,I should forget all watchers there,And only for your glances care.And if your eyes were really stars,With leagues that none can mete for barsTo keep me from their longed-for day,I could not feel more far away.F. W. Bourdillon.
IF stars were really watching eyesOf angel armies in the skies,I should forget all watchers there,And only for your glances care.
And if your eyes were really stars,With leagues that none can mete for barsTo keep me from their longed-for day,I could not feel more far away.F. W. Bourdillon.
LOVE in the heart is as a nightingaleThat sings in a green wood;And none can pass unheeding there, nor failOf impulses of good.Though cruel brief be Love’s bright hour of song,Yet let him sing his fill!For other hearts the echoes shall prolongWhen Love’s own voice is still.F. W. Bourdillon.
LOVE in the heart is as a nightingaleThat sings in a green wood;And none can pass unheeding there, nor failOf impulses of good.Though cruel brief be Love’s bright hour of song,Yet let him sing his fill!For other hearts the echoes shall prolongWhen Love’s own voice is still.F. W. Bourdillon.
LOVE in the heart is as a nightingaleThat sings in a green wood;And none can pass unheeding there, nor failOf impulses of good.
Though cruel brief be Love’s bright hour of song,Yet let him sing his fill!For other hearts the echoes shall prolongWhen Love’s own voice is still.F. W. Bourdillon.
I will not let thee go.Ends all our month-long love in this?Can it be summed up so,Quit in a single kiss?I will not let thee go.I will not let thee go.If thy words’ breath could scare thy deeds,As the soft south can blowAnd toss the feathered seeds,Then might I let thee go.I will not let thee go.Had not the great sun seen, I might;Or were he reckoned slowTo bring the false to light,Then might I let thee go.I will not let thee go.The stars that crowd the summer skiesHave watched us so belowWith all their million eyes,I dare not let thee go.I will not let thee go.Have we not chid the changeful moon,Now rising late, and nowBecause she set too soon,And shall I let thee go?I will not let thee go.Have not the young flowers been content,Plucked ere their buds could blow,To seal our sacrament?I cannot let thee go.I will not let thee go.I hold thee by too many bands:Thou sayest farewell, and lo!I have thee by the hands,And will not let thee go.Robert Bridges.
I will not let thee go.Ends all our month-long love in this?Can it be summed up so,Quit in a single kiss?I will not let thee go.I will not let thee go.If thy words’ breath could scare thy deeds,As the soft south can blowAnd toss the feathered seeds,Then might I let thee go.I will not let thee go.Had not the great sun seen, I might;Or were he reckoned slowTo bring the false to light,Then might I let thee go.I will not let thee go.The stars that crowd the summer skiesHave watched us so belowWith all their million eyes,I dare not let thee go.I will not let thee go.Have we not chid the changeful moon,Now rising late, and nowBecause she set too soon,And shall I let thee go?I will not let thee go.Have not the young flowers been content,Plucked ere their buds could blow,To seal our sacrament?I cannot let thee go.I will not let thee go.I hold thee by too many bands:Thou sayest farewell, and lo!I have thee by the hands,And will not let thee go.Robert Bridges.
I will not let thee go.Ends all our month-long love in this?Can it be summed up so,Quit in a single kiss?I will not let thee go.
I will not let thee go.If thy words’ breath could scare thy deeds,As the soft south can blowAnd toss the feathered seeds,Then might I let thee go.
I will not let thee go.Had not the great sun seen, I might;Or were he reckoned slowTo bring the false to light,Then might I let thee go.
I will not let thee go.The stars that crowd the summer skiesHave watched us so belowWith all their million eyes,I dare not let thee go.
I will not let thee go.Have we not chid the changeful moon,Now rising late, and nowBecause she set too soon,And shall I let thee go?
I will not let thee go.Have not the young flowers been content,Plucked ere their buds could blow,To seal our sacrament?I cannot let thee go.
I will not let thee go.I hold thee by too many bands:Thou sayest farewell, and lo!I have thee by the hands,And will not let thee go.Robert Bridges.
LONG are the hours the sun is above,But when evening comes I go home to my love.I’m away the daylight hours and more,Yet she comes not down to open the door.She does not meet me upon the stair,—She sits in my chamber and waits for me there.As I enter the room, she does not move:I always walk straight up to my love;And she lets me take my wonted placeAt her side, and gaze in her dear, dead face.There as I sit, from her head thrown backHer hair falls straight in a shadow black.Aching and hot as my tired eyes be,She is all that I wish to see.And in my wearied and toil-dinned ear,She says all things that I wish to hear.Dusky and duskier grows the room,Yet I see her best in the darker gloom.When the winter eves are early and cold,The firelight hours are a dream of gold.And so I sit here night by night,In rest and enjoyment of love’s delight.But a knock on the door, a step on the stairWill startle, alas, my love from her chair.If a stranger comes, she will not stay:At the first alarm she is off and away.And he wonders, my guest, usurping her throne,That I sit so much by myself alone.Robert Bridges.
LONG are the hours the sun is above,But when evening comes I go home to my love.I’m away the daylight hours and more,Yet she comes not down to open the door.She does not meet me upon the stair,—She sits in my chamber and waits for me there.As I enter the room, she does not move:I always walk straight up to my love;And she lets me take my wonted placeAt her side, and gaze in her dear, dead face.There as I sit, from her head thrown backHer hair falls straight in a shadow black.Aching and hot as my tired eyes be,She is all that I wish to see.And in my wearied and toil-dinned ear,She says all things that I wish to hear.Dusky and duskier grows the room,Yet I see her best in the darker gloom.When the winter eves are early and cold,The firelight hours are a dream of gold.And so I sit here night by night,In rest and enjoyment of love’s delight.But a knock on the door, a step on the stairWill startle, alas, my love from her chair.If a stranger comes, she will not stay:At the first alarm she is off and away.And he wonders, my guest, usurping her throne,That I sit so much by myself alone.Robert Bridges.
LONG are the hours the sun is above,But when evening comes I go home to my love.
I’m away the daylight hours and more,Yet she comes not down to open the door.
She does not meet me upon the stair,—She sits in my chamber and waits for me there.
As I enter the room, she does not move:I always walk straight up to my love;
And she lets me take my wonted placeAt her side, and gaze in her dear, dead face.
There as I sit, from her head thrown backHer hair falls straight in a shadow black.
Aching and hot as my tired eyes be,She is all that I wish to see.
And in my wearied and toil-dinned ear,She says all things that I wish to hear.
Dusky and duskier grows the room,Yet I see her best in the darker gloom.
When the winter eves are early and cold,The firelight hours are a dream of gold.
And so I sit here night by night,In rest and enjoyment of love’s delight.
But a knock on the door, a step on the stairWill startle, alas, my love from her chair.
If a stranger comes, she will not stay:At the first alarm she is off and away.
And he wonders, my guest, usurping her throne,That I sit so much by myself alone.Robert Bridges.
SUCH a starved bank of mossTill, that May morn,Blue ran the flash across:Violets were born!
SUCH a starved bank of mossTill, that May morn,Blue ran the flash across:Violets were born!
SUCH a starved bank of mossTill, that May morn,Blue ran the flash across:Violets were born!
SKY—what a scowl of cloudTill, near and far,Ray on ray split the shroud:Splendid, a star!
SKY—what a scowl of cloudTill, near and far,Ray on ray split the shroud:Splendid, a star!
SKY—what a scowl of cloudTill, near and far,Ray on ray split the shroud:Splendid, a star!
WORLD—how it walled aboutLife with disgraceTill God’s own smile came out:That was thy face.Robert Browning.
WORLD—how it walled aboutLife with disgraceTill God’s own smile came out:That was thy face.Robert Browning.
WORLD—how it walled aboutLife with disgraceTill God’s own smile came out:That was thy face.Robert Browning.
THE rain set early in to-night,The sullen wind was soon awake;It tore the elm-tops down for spite,And did its worst to vex the lake.I listened with heart fit to break,When glided in Porphyria; straightShe shut the cold out and the storm,And kneeled and made the cheerless grateBlaze up, and all the cottage warm;Which done, she rose, and from her formWithdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,And laid her soiled gloves by, untiedHer hat and let the damp hair fall,And, last, she sat down by my sideAnd called me. When no voice replied,She put my arm about her waist,And made her smooth, white shoulder bare,And all her yellow hair displaced,And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,And spread o’er all her yellow hair,—Murmuring how she loved me,—sheToo weak for all her heart’s endeavour,To set its struggling passion freeFrom pride, and vainer ties dissever,And give herself to me for ever.But passion sometimes would prevail,Nor could to-night’s gay feast restrainA sudden thought of one so paleFor love of her, and all in vain:So, she was come through wind and rain.Be sure I looked up at her eyesHappy and proud; at last I knewPorphyria worshipped me; surpriseMade my heart swell, and still it grewWhile I debated what to do.That moment she was mine, mine, fair,Perfectly pure and good: I foundA thing to do, and all her hairIn one long yellow string I woundThree times her little throat around,And strangled her. No pain felt she;I am quite sure she felt no pain.As a shut bud that holds a bee,I warily oped her lids: againLaughed the blue eyes without a stain.And I untightened next the tressAbout her neck; her cheek once moreBlushed bright beneath my burning kiss:I propped her head up as before.Only this time my shoulder boreHer head, which droops upon it still:The smiling rosy little head,So glad it has its utmost will,That all it scorned at once is fled,And I, its love, am gained instead!Porphyria’s love: she guessed not howHer darling one wish would be heard.And thus we sit together now,And all night long we have not stirred,And yet God has not said a word.Robert Browning.
THE rain set early in to-night,The sullen wind was soon awake;It tore the elm-tops down for spite,And did its worst to vex the lake.I listened with heart fit to break,When glided in Porphyria; straightShe shut the cold out and the storm,And kneeled and made the cheerless grateBlaze up, and all the cottage warm;Which done, she rose, and from her formWithdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,And laid her soiled gloves by, untiedHer hat and let the damp hair fall,And, last, she sat down by my sideAnd called me. When no voice replied,She put my arm about her waist,And made her smooth, white shoulder bare,And all her yellow hair displaced,And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,And spread o’er all her yellow hair,—Murmuring how she loved me,—sheToo weak for all her heart’s endeavour,To set its struggling passion freeFrom pride, and vainer ties dissever,And give herself to me for ever.But passion sometimes would prevail,Nor could to-night’s gay feast restrainA sudden thought of one so paleFor love of her, and all in vain:So, she was come through wind and rain.Be sure I looked up at her eyesHappy and proud; at last I knewPorphyria worshipped me; surpriseMade my heart swell, and still it grewWhile I debated what to do.That moment she was mine, mine, fair,Perfectly pure and good: I foundA thing to do, and all her hairIn one long yellow string I woundThree times her little throat around,And strangled her. No pain felt she;I am quite sure she felt no pain.As a shut bud that holds a bee,I warily oped her lids: againLaughed the blue eyes without a stain.And I untightened next the tressAbout her neck; her cheek once moreBlushed bright beneath my burning kiss:I propped her head up as before.Only this time my shoulder boreHer head, which droops upon it still:The smiling rosy little head,So glad it has its utmost will,That all it scorned at once is fled,And I, its love, am gained instead!Porphyria’s love: she guessed not howHer darling one wish would be heard.And thus we sit together now,And all night long we have not stirred,And yet God has not said a word.Robert Browning.
THE rain set early in to-night,The sullen wind was soon awake;It tore the elm-tops down for spite,And did its worst to vex the lake.I listened with heart fit to break,
When glided in Porphyria; straightShe shut the cold out and the storm,And kneeled and made the cheerless grateBlaze up, and all the cottage warm;Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,And laid her soiled gloves by, untiedHer hat and let the damp hair fall,And, last, she sat down by my sideAnd called me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,And made her smooth, white shoulder bare,And all her yellow hair displaced,And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,And spread o’er all her yellow hair,—
Murmuring how she loved me,—sheToo weak for all her heart’s endeavour,To set its struggling passion freeFrom pride, and vainer ties dissever,And give herself to me for ever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,Nor could to-night’s gay feast restrainA sudden thought of one so paleFor love of her, and all in vain:So, she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I looked up at her eyesHappy and proud; at last I knewPorphyria worshipped me; surpriseMade my heart swell, and still it grewWhile I debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,Perfectly pure and good: I foundA thing to do, and all her hairIn one long yellow string I woundThree times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;I am quite sure she felt no pain.As a shut bud that holds a bee,I warily oped her lids: againLaughed the blue eyes without a stain.
And I untightened next the tressAbout her neck; her cheek once moreBlushed bright beneath my burning kiss:I propped her head up as before.Only this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:The smiling rosy little head,So glad it has its utmost will,That all it scorned at once is fled,And I, its love, am gained instead!
Porphyria’s love: she guessed not howHer darling one wish would be heard.And thus we sit together now,And all night long we have not stirred,And yet God has not said a word.Robert Browning.
UP, up, my heart! up, up, my heart,This day was made for thee!For soon the hawthorn spray shall part,And thou a face shalt seeThat comes, O heart, O foolish heart,This way to gladden thee.The grass shows fresher on the wayThat soon her feet shall tread—The last year’s leaflet curled and gray,I could have sworn was dead,Looks green, for lying in the wayI know her feet will tread.What hand yon blossom-curtain stirs,More light than errant air?I know the touch—’tis hers, ’tis hers!She parts the thicket there—The flowerèd branch her coming stirsHath perfumed all the air.The springs of all forgotten yearsAre waked to life anew—Up, up, my eyes, nor fill with tearsAs tender as the dew—I knew her not in all those years;But life begins anew.Up, up, my heart! up, up, my heart,This day was made for thee!Come, Wit, take on thy nimblest art,And win Love’s victory—What now? Where art thou, coward heart?Thy hour is here—and She!H. C. Bunner.
UP, up, my heart! up, up, my heart,This day was made for thee!For soon the hawthorn spray shall part,And thou a face shalt seeThat comes, O heart, O foolish heart,This way to gladden thee.The grass shows fresher on the wayThat soon her feet shall tread—The last year’s leaflet curled and gray,I could have sworn was dead,Looks green, for lying in the wayI know her feet will tread.What hand yon blossom-curtain stirs,More light than errant air?I know the touch—’tis hers, ’tis hers!She parts the thicket there—The flowerèd branch her coming stirsHath perfumed all the air.The springs of all forgotten yearsAre waked to life anew—Up, up, my eyes, nor fill with tearsAs tender as the dew—I knew her not in all those years;But life begins anew.Up, up, my heart! up, up, my heart,This day was made for thee!Come, Wit, take on thy nimblest art,And win Love’s victory—What now? Where art thou, coward heart?Thy hour is here—and She!H. C. Bunner.
UP, up, my heart! up, up, my heart,This day was made for thee!For soon the hawthorn spray shall part,And thou a face shalt seeThat comes, O heart, O foolish heart,This way to gladden thee.
The grass shows fresher on the wayThat soon her feet shall tread—The last year’s leaflet curled and gray,I could have sworn was dead,Looks green, for lying in the wayI know her feet will tread.
What hand yon blossom-curtain stirs,More light than errant air?I know the touch—’tis hers, ’tis hers!She parts the thicket there—The flowerèd branch her coming stirsHath perfumed all the air.
The springs of all forgotten yearsAre waked to life anew—Up, up, my eyes, nor fill with tearsAs tender as the dew—I knew her not in all those years;But life begins anew.
Up, up, my heart! up, up, my heart,This day was made for thee!Come, Wit, take on thy nimblest art,And win Love’s victory—What now? Where art thou, coward heart?Thy hour is here—and She!H. C. Bunner.
UPON that quiet day that liesWhere forest branches screen the skies,The spirit of the eve has laidA deeper and a dreamier shade;And winds that through the tree-tops blowWake not the silent gloom below.Only the sound of far-off streams,Faint as our dreams of childhood’s dreams,Wandering in tangled pathways crost,Like woodland truants strayed and lost,Their faint, complaining echoes roam,Threading the forest toward their home.O brooks, I too have gone astray,And left my comrade on the way—Guide me through aisles where soft you moan,To some sad spot you know alone,Where only leaves and nestlings stir,And I may dream, and dream of Her.H. C. Bunner.
UPON that quiet day that liesWhere forest branches screen the skies,The spirit of the eve has laidA deeper and a dreamier shade;And winds that through the tree-tops blowWake not the silent gloom below.Only the sound of far-off streams,Faint as our dreams of childhood’s dreams,Wandering in tangled pathways crost,Like woodland truants strayed and lost,Their faint, complaining echoes roam,Threading the forest toward their home.O brooks, I too have gone astray,And left my comrade on the way—Guide me through aisles where soft you moan,To some sad spot you know alone,Where only leaves and nestlings stir,And I may dream, and dream of Her.H. C. Bunner.
UPON that quiet day that liesWhere forest branches screen the skies,The spirit of the eve has laidA deeper and a dreamier shade;And winds that through the tree-tops blowWake not the silent gloom below.
Only the sound of far-off streams,Faint as our dreams of childhood’s dreams,Wandering in tangled pathways crost,Like woodland truants strayed and lost,Their faint, complaining echoes roam,Threading the forest toward their home.
O brooks, I too have gone astray,And left my comrade on the way—Guide me through aisles where soft you moan,To some sad spot you know alone,Where only leaves and nestlings stir,And I may dream, and dream of Her.H. C. Bunner.
YOUR carmine flakes of bloom to-nightThe fire of wintry sunsets hold;Again in dreams you burn to lightA fair Canadian garden old.The blue north summer over itIs bland with long ethereal days;The gleaming martins wheel and flitWhere breaks your sun down orient ways.There, when the gradual twilight falls,Through quietudes of dusk afar,Hermit, antiphonal hermit callsFrom hills below the first pale star.Then, in your passionate love’s foredoomOnce more your spirit stirs the air,And you are lifted through the gloomTo warm the coils of her dark hair.Bliss Carman.
YOUR carmine flakes of bloom to-nightThe fire of wintry sunsets hold;Again in dreams you burn to lightA fair Canadian garden old.The blue north summer over itIs bland with long ethereal days;The gleaming martins wheel and flitWhere breaks your sun down orient ways.There, when the gradual twilight falls,Through quietudes of dusk afar,Hermit, antiphonal hermit callsFrom hills below the first pale star.Then, in your passionate love’s foredoomOnce more your spirit stirs the air,And you are lifted through the gloomTo warm the coils of her dark hair.Bliss Carman.
YOUR carmine flakes of bloom to-nightThe fire of wintry sunsets hold;Again in dreams you burn to lightA fair Canadian garden old.
The blue north summer over itIs bland with long ethereal days;The gleaming martins wheel and flitWhere breaks your sun down orient ways.
There, when the gradual twilight falls,Through quietudes of dusk afar,Hermit, antiphonal hermit callsFrom hills below the first pale star.
Then, in your passionate love’s foredoomOnce more your spirit stirs the air,And you are lifted through the gloomTo warm the coils of her dark hair.Bliss Carman.
IN a still room at hush of dawn,My Love and I lay side by sideAnd heard the roaming forest windStir in the paling autumn-tide.I watched her earth-brown eyes grow gladBecause the round day was so fair;While memories of reluctant nightLurked in the blue dusk of her hair.Outside, a yellow maple-tree,Shifting upon the silvery blueWith small innumerable sound,Rustled to let the sunlight through.The livelong day the elvish leavesDanced with their shadows on the floor;And the lost children of the windWent straying homeward by our door.And all the swarthy afternoonWe watched the great deliberate sunWalk through the crimsoned hazy world,Counting his hilltops one by one.Then as the purple twilight cameAnd touched the vines along our eaves,Another shadow stood withoutAnd gloomed the dancing of the leaves.The silence fell on my Love’s lips;Her great brown eyes were veiled and sadWith pondering some maze of dream,Though all the splendid year was glad.Restless and vague as a gray windHer heart had grown, she knew not why.But hurrying to the open door,Against the verge of western skyI saw retreating on the hills,Looming and sinister and black,The stealthy figure swift and hugeOf One who strode and looked not back.Bliss Carman.
IN a still room at hush of dawn,My Love and I lay side by sideAnd heard the roaming forest windStir in the paling autumn-tide.I watched her earth-brown eyes grow gladBecause the round day was so fair;While memories of reluctant nightLurked in the blue dusk of her hair.Outside, a yellow maple-tree,Shifting upon the silvery blueWith small innumerable sound,Rustled to let the sunlight through.The livelong day the elvish leavesDanced with their shadows on the floor;And the lost children of the windWent straying homeward by our door.And all the swarthy afternoonWe watched the great deliberate sunWalk through the crimsoned hazy world,Counting his hilltops one by one.Then as the purple twilight cameAnd touched the vines along our eaves,Another shadow stood withoutAnd gloomed the dancing of the leaves.The silence fell on my Love’s lips;Her great brown eyes were veiled and sadWith pondering some maze of dream,Though all the splendid year was glad.Restless and vague as a gray windHer heart had grown, she knew not why.But hurrying to the open door,Against the verge of western skyI saw retreating on the hills,Looming and sinister and black,The stealthy figure swift and hugeOf One who strode and looked not back.Bliss Carman.
IN a still room at hush of dawn,My Love and I lay side by sideAnd heard the roaming forest windStir in the paling autumn-tide.
I watched her earth-brown eyes grow gladBecause the round day was so fair;While memories of reluctant nightLurked in the blue dusk of her hair.
Outside, a yellow maple-tree,Shifting upon the silvery blueWith small innumerable sound,Rustled to let the sunlight through.
The livelong day the elvish leavesDanced with their shadows on the floor;And the lost children of the windWent straying homeward by our door.
And all the swarthy afternoonWe watched the great deliberate sunWalk through the crimsoned hazy world,Counting his hilltops one by one.
Then as the purple twilight cameAnd touched the vines along our eaves,Another shadow stood withoutAnd gloomed the dancing of the leaves.
The silence fell on my Love’s lips;Her great brown eyes were veiled and sadWith pondering some maze of dream,Though all the splendid year was glad.
Restless and vague as a gray windHer heart had grown, she knew not why.But hurrying to the open door,Against the verge of western sky
I saw retreating on the hills,Looming and sinister and black,The stealthy figure swift and hugeOf One who strode and looked not back.Bliss Carman.
FAR away hangs an apple that ripens on highThe latest-born child of old sun-blind July,Till the summer’s warm kiss as he wooes overheadTurns its sour heart to sweetness, its wan cheek to red.But it is not for you, and it is not for me,Nay, it is not for any who here may be;For its dawning red sweetness,That rounds to completenessGrows moist for the lips that we never may see.There’s a white rose leaf-cloistered in heavy noon-hush,And no eyes but the stars tempt its pale face to blush,In that wilderness garden where, shut from day’s beam,Fall its fragrant white leaves, light as steps of a dream.But it is not for you, and it is not for me,Nay, it is not for any who here may be;For it sleeps and then wakesIn dew-scented snow-flakes,As a star for the dusk hair we never may see.In a green golden valley there grows an elf-girl,And her lip is red-ripe; and her soul, one rich pearl,Yields once to one diver a treasure unpricedAs the wine of the Gods or the wine-blood of Christ.But she is not for you, and she is not for me,Nay she is not for any who here may be;For her breast like a moonThrough the rosed air of JuneGrows round for his hand whom we never may see.Henry Bernard Carpenter.
FAR away hangs an apple that ripens on highThe latest-born child of old sun-blind July,Till the summer’s warm kiss as he wooes overheadTurns its sour heart to sweetness, its wan cheek to red.But it is not for you, and it is not for me,Nay, it is not for any who here may be;For its dawning red sweetness,That rounds to completenessGrows moist for the lips that we never may see.There’s a white rose leaf-cloistered in heavy noon-hush,And no eyes but the stars tempt its pale face to blush,In that wilderness garden where, shut from day’s beam,Fall its fragrant white leaves, light as steps of a dream.But it is not for you, and it is not for me,Nay, it is not for any who here may be;For it sleeps and then wakesIn dew-scented snow-flakes,As a star for the dusk hair we never may see.In a green golden valley there grows an elf-girl,And her lip is red-ripe; and her soul, one rich pearl,Yields once to one diver a treasure unpricedAs the wine of the Gods or the wine-blood of Christ.But she is not for you, and she is not for me,Nay she is not for any who here may be;For her breast like a moonThrough the rosed air of JuneGrows round for his hand whom we never may see.Henry Bernard Carpenter.
FAR away hangs an apple that ripens on highThe latest-born child of old sun-blind July,Till the summer’s warm kiss as he wooes overheadTurns its sour heart to sweetness, its wan cheek to red.But it is not for you, and it is not for me,Nay, it is not for any who here may be;For its dawning red sweetness,That rounds to completenessGrows moist for the lips that we never may see.
There’s a white rose leaf-cloistered in heavy noon-hush,And no eyes but the stars tempt its pale face to blush,In that wilderness garden where, shut from day’s beam,Fall its fragrant white leaves, light as steps of a dream.But it is not for you, and it is not for me,Nay, it is not for any who here may be;For it sleeps and then wakesIn dew-scented snow-flakes,As a star for the dusk hair we never may see.
In a green golden valley there grows an elf-girl,And her lip is red-ripe; and her soul, one rich pearl,Yields once to one diver a treasure unpricedAs the wine of the Gods or the wine-blood of Christ.But she is not for you, and she is not for me,Nay she is not for any who here may be;For her breast like a moonThrough the rosed air of JuneGrows round for his hand whom we never may see.Henry Bernard Carpenter.
WITH moon-white hearts that held a gleamI gathered wild flowers in a dream,And shaped a woman, whose sweet bloodWas odour of the wildwood bud.From dew, the starlight arrowed through,I wrought a woman’s eyes of blue;The lids, that on her eyeballs lay,Were rose-pale petals of the May.I took the music of the breeze,And water whispering in the trees,And shaped the soul that breathed belowA woman’s blossom breasts of snow.Out of a rose-bud’s veins I drewThe fragrant crimsom beating throughThe languid lips of her, whose kissWas as a poppy’s drowsiness.Out of the moonlight and the airI wrought the glory of her hair,That o’er her eyes’ blue heaven layLike some gold cloud o’er dawn of day.A shadow’s shadow in the glassOf sleep, my spirit saw her pass;And, thinking of it now, meseemsWe only live within our dreams.For in that time she was to meMore real than our reality;More real than Earth, more real than I—The unreal things that pass and die.Madison Cawein.
WITH moon-white hearts that held a gleamI gathered wild flowers in a dream,And shaped a woman, whose sweet bloodWas odour of the wildwood bud.From dew, the starlight arrowed through,I wrought a woman’s eyes of blue;The lids, that on her eyeballs lay,Were rose-pale petals of the May.I took the music of the breeze,And water whispering in the trees,And shaped the soul that breathed belowA woman’s blossom breasts of snow.Out of a rose-bud’s veins I drewThe fragrant crimsom beating throughThe languid lips of her, whose kissWas as a poppy’s drowsiness.Out of the moonlight and the airI wrought the glory of her hair,That o’er her eyes’ blue heaven layLike some gold cloud o’er dawn of day.A shadow’s shadow in the glassOf sleep, my spirit saw her pass;And, thinking of it now, meseemsWe only live within our dreams.For in that time she was to meMore real than our reality;More real than Earth, more real than I—The unreal things that pass and die.Madison Cawein.
WITH moon-white hearts that held a gleamI gathered wild flowers in a dream,And shaped a woman, whose sweet bloodWas odour of the wildwood bud.
From dew, the starlight arrowed through,I wrought a woman’s eyes of blue;The lids, that on her eyeballs lay,Were rose-pale petals of the May.
I took the music of the breeze,And water whispering in the trees,And shaped the soul that breathed belowA woman’s blossom breasts of snow.
Out of a rose-bud’s veins I drewThe fragrant crimsom beating throughThe languid lips of her, whose kissWas as a poppy’s drowsiness.
Out of the moonlight and the airI wrought the glory of her hair,That o’er her eyes’ blue heaven layLike some gold cloud o’er dawn of day.
A shadow’s shadow in the glassOf sleep, my spirit saw her pass;And, thinking of it now, meseemsWe only live within our dreams.
For in that time she was to meMore real than our reality;More real than Earth, more real than I—The unreal things that pass and die.Madison Cawein.
PASSION? not hers who fixed me with pure eyes—One hand among the deep curls of her brow,I drank the girlhood of her gaze with sighs:She never sighed, nor gave me kiss or vow.So have I seen a clear October pool,Cold, liquid topaz set within the searGold of the woodland, tremorless and cool,Reflecting all the heartbreak of the year.Sweetheart? not she whose voice was music-sweet,Whose face loaned language to melodious prayer;Sweetheart I called her.—When did she repeatSweet to one hope or heart to one despair!So have I seen a glad flower’s fragrant headSung to and sung to by a longing bird,And at the last, albeit the bird lay dead,No blossom wilted, for it had not heard.Madison Cawein.
PASSION? not hers who fixed me with pure eyes—One hand among the deep curls of her brow,I drank the girlhood of her gaze with sighs:She never sighed, nor gave me kiss or vow.So have I seen a clear October pool,Cold, liquid topaz set within the searGold of the woodland, tremorless and cool,Reflecting all the heartbreak of the year.Sweetheart? not she whose voice was music-sweet,Whose face loaned language to melodious prayer;Sweetheart I called her.—When did she repeatSweet to one hope or heart to one despair!So have I seen a glad flower’s fragrant headSung to and sung to by a longing bird,And at the last, albeit the bird lay dead,No blossom wilted, for it had not heard.Madison Cawein.
PASSION? not hers who fixed me with pure eyes—One hand among the deep curls of her brow,I drank the girlhood of her gaze with sighs:She never sighed, nor gave me kiss or vow.
So have I seen a clear October pool,Cold, liquid topaz set within the searGold of the woodland, tremorless and cool,Reflecting all the heartbreak of the year.
Sweetheart? not she whose voice was music-sweet,Whose face loaned language to melodious prayer;Sweetheart I called her.—When did she repeatSweet to one hope or heart to one despair!
So have I seen a glad flower’s fragrant headSung to and sung to by a longing bird,And at the last, albeit the bird lay dead,No blossom wilted, for it had not heard.Madison Cawein.
THROUGH laughing leaves the sunlight comes,Turning the green to gold;The bee about the heather hums,And the morning air is coldHere on the breezy woodland side,Where we two ride.Through laughing leaves on golden hair,The sunlight glances down,And makes a halo round her there,And crowns her with a crownQueen of the sunrise and the sun,As we ride on.The wanton wind has kissed her face,—His lips have left a rose,—He found her cheek so sweet a placeFor kisses, I suppose,—He thought he’d leave a sign, that soOthers might know.The path grows narrower as we rideThe green boughs close above,And overhead, and either side,The wild birds sing of Love:—But ah, she is not listeningTo what they sing!Till I take up the wild bird’s songAnd word by word unfoldIts meaning as we ride along,—And when my tale is told,I turn my eyes to hers again,—And then,—and then,—(The bridle path more narrow grows,The leaves shut out the sun;—)Where the wind’s lips left their one roseMy own leave more than one:—While the leaves murmur up above,And laugh for love.This was the place;—you see the skyNow ’twixt the branches bare;About the path the dead leaves lie,And songless is the air;—All’s changed since then, for that you knowWas long ago.Let us ride on! The wind is cold.—Let us ride on—ride fast!—’Tis winter, and we know of oldThat love could never lastWithout the summer and the sun!—Let us ride on!Herbert E. Clarke.
THROUGH laughing leaves the sunlight comes,Turning the green to gold;The bee about the heather hums,And the morning air is coldHere on the breezy woodland side,Where we two ride.Through laughing leaves on golden hair,The sunlight glances down,And makes a halo round her there,And crowns her with a crownQueen of the sunrise and the sun,As we ride on.The wanton wind has kissed her face,—His lips have left a rose,—He found her cheek so sweet a placeFor kisses, I suppose,—He thought he’d leave a sign, that soOthers might know.The path grows narrower as we rideThe green boughs close above,And overhead, and either side,The wild birds sing of Love:—But ah, she is not listeningTo what they sing!Till I take up the wild bird’s songAnd word by word unfoldIts meaning as we ride along,—And when my tale is told,I turn my eyes to hers again,—And then,—and then,—(The bridle path more narrow grows,The leaves shut out the sun;—)Where the wind’s lips left their one roseMy own leave more than one:—While the leaves murmur up above,And laugh for love.This was the place;—you see the skyNow ’twixt the branches bare;About the path the dead leaves lie,And songless is the air;—All’s changed since then, for that you knowWas long ago.Let us ride on! The wind is cold.—Let us ride on—ride fast!—’Tis winter, and we know of oldThat love could never lastWithout the summer and the sun!—Let us ride on!Herbert E. Clarke.
THROUGH laughing leaves the sunlight comes,Turning the green to gold;The bee about the heather hums,And the morning air is coldHere on the breezy woodland side,Where we two ride.
Through laughing leaves on golden hair,The sunlight glances down,And makes a halo round her there,And crowns her with a crownQueen of the sunrise and the sun,As we ride on.
The wanton wind has kissed her face,—His lips have left a rose,—He found her cheek so sweet a placeFor kisses, I suppose,—He thought he’d leave a sign, that soOthers might know.
The path grows narrower as we rideThe green boughs close above,And overhead, and either side,The wild birds sing of Love:—But ah, she is not listeningTo what they sing!
Till I take up the wild bird’s songAnd word by word unfoldIts meaning as we ride along,—And when my tale is told,I turn my eyes to hers again,—And then,—and then,—
(The bridle path more narrow grows,The leaves shut out the sun;—)Where the wind’s lips left their one roseMy own leave more than one:—While the leaves murmur up above,And laugh for love.
This was the place;—you see the skyNow ’twixt the branches bare;About the path the dead leaves lie,And songless is the air;—All’s changed since then, for that you knowWas long ago.
Let us ride on! The wind is cold.—Let us ride on—ride fast!—’Tis winter, and we know of oldThat love could never lastWithout the summer and the sun!—Let us ride on!Herbert E. Clarke.
OBROWN lark, loving cloud-land bestAnd sun-smit seas of sky,Thee does a musical unrestDrive to rise upward from thy nestFar fathoms high.
OBROWN lark, loving cloud-land bestAnd sun-smit seas of sky,Thee does a musical unrestDrive to rise upward from thy nestFar fathoms high.
OBROWN lark, loving cloud-land bestAnd sun-smit seas of sky,Thee does a musical unrestDrive to rise upward from thy nestFar fathoms high.
O fluid-fluting blackbird, keepThe midnight of thy wingClose to my home where leaves grow deep,Since where two lovers lie asleepThou lovest to sing.Mortimer Collins.
O fluid-fluting blackbird, keepThe midnight of thy wingClose to my home where leaves grow deep,Since where two lovers lie asleepThou lovest to sing.Mortimer Collins.
O fluid-fluting blackbird, keepThe midnight of thy wingClose to my home where leaves grow deep,Since where two lovers lie asleepThou lovest to sing.Mortimer Collins.
DAWN, with flusht foot upon the mountain tops,Stands beckoning to the Sun-god’s golden car,While on her high clear brow the morning starGrows fainter, as the silver-misty copseAnd rosy river-bend and village whiteFeel the strong shafts of light.The tide of dreams has reached its utter ebb;The joy of Dawn is in my Lady’s eyes,Where at her window with a half-surpriseShe sees the meadows meshed with fairy web,And hears the happy skylark, far above,Singing,I live! I love!Mortimer Collins.
DAWN, with flusht foot upon the mountain tops,Stands beckoning to the Sun-god’s golden car,While on her high clear brow the morning starGrows fainter, as the silver-misty copseAnd rosy river-bend and village whiteFeel the strong shafts of light.The tide of dreams has reached its utter ebb;The joy of Dawn is in my Lady’s eyes,Where at her window with a half-surpriseShe sees the meadows meshed with fairy web,And hears the happy skylark, far above,Singing,I live! I love!Mortimer Collins.
DAWN, with flusht foot upon the mountain tops,Stands beckoning to the Sun-god’s golden car,While on her high clear brow the morning starGrows fainter, as the silver-misty copseAnd rosy river-bend and village whiteFeel the strong shafts of light.
The tide of dreams has reached its utter ebb;The joy of Dawn is in my Lady’s eyes,Where at her window with a half-surpriseShe sees the meadows meshed with fairy web,And hears the happy skylark, far above,Singing,I live! I love!Mortimer Collins.
THE fire is smouldering while the daylight wanes;Rain taps impatient on the window-panes;The waves roll high, and the cold wind complains.The wind complains.Reluctant start the embers to a blaze;Among the ashy drifts the red coal plays;In fairy rings the circling smoke delays.The smoke delays.Ah, lonely life! it is the wind’s sad cry;Ah, only life! calls Echo, floating by;Ah, love is life! it is my heart’s reply.My heart’s reply.Burn low, ye fires that on the hearthstone play!Beat out your life, O waves in dashing spray!My heart chants not your monotone to-day.Oh, not to-day!I hear no dirge, I see no ashes gray—Love! love! love! love! its rapture fills the day!The winter brings to me the bloom of May.The bloom of May.Lydia Avery Coonley.
THE fire is smouldering while the daylight wanes;Rain taps impatient on the window-panes;The waves roll high, and the cold wind complains.The wind complains.Reluctant start the embers to a blaze;Among the ashy drifts the red coal plays;In fairy rings the circling smoke delays.The smoke delays.Ah, lonely life! it is the wind’s sad cry;Ah, only life! calls Echo, floating by;Ah, love is life! it is my heart’s reply.My heart’s reply.Burn low, ye fires that on the hearthstone play!Beat out your life, O waves in dashing spray!My heart chants not your monotone to-day.Oh, not to-day!I hear no dirge, I see no ashes gray—Love! love! love! love! its rapture fills the day!The winter brings to me the bloom of May.The bloom of May.Lydia Avery Coonley.
THE fire is smouldering while the daylight wanes;Rain taps impatient on the window-panes;The waves roll high, and the cold wind complains.The wind complains.
Reluctant start the embers to a blaze;Among the ashy drifts the red coal plays;In fairy rings the circling smoke delays.The smoke delays.
Ah, lonely life! it is the wind’s sad cry;Ah, only life! calls Echo, floating by;Ah, love is life! it is my heart’s reply.My heart’s reply.
Burn low, ye fires that on the hearthstone play!Beat out your life, O waves in dashing spray!My heart chants not your monotone to-day.Oh, not to-day!
I hear no dirge, I see no ashes gray—Love! love! love! love! its rapture fills the day!The winter brings to me the bloom of May.The bloom of May.Lydia Avery Coonley.