IFOUND him openly wearing her token;I knew that her troth could never be broken;I laid my hand on the hilt of my sword,He did the same, and he spoke no word;He faced me with his villainy;He laughed and said, “She gave it me.”We searched for seconds, they soon were found;They measured our swords; they measured the ground:They held to the deadly work too fast;They thought to gain our place at last.We fought in the sheen of a wintry wood,The fair white snow was red with his blood;But his was the victory, for, as he died,He swore by the rood that he had not lied.Walter Herries Pollock.
IFOUND him openly wearing her token;I knew that her troth could never be broken;I laid my hand on the hilt of my sword,He did the same, and he spoke no word;He faced me with his villainy;He laughed and said, “She gave it me.”We searched for seconds, they soon were found;They measured our swords; they measured the ground:They held to the deadly work too fast;They thought to gain our place at last.We fought in the sheen of a wintry wood,The fair white snow was red with his blood;But his was the victory, for, as he died,He swore by the rood that he had not lied.Walter Herries Pollock.
IFOUND him openly wearing her token;I knew that her troth could never be broken;I laid my hand on the hilt of my sword,He did the same, and he spoke no word;He faced me with his villainy;He laughed and said, “She gave it me.”We searched for seconds, they soon were found;They measured our swords; they measured the ground:They held to the deadly work too fast;They thought to gain our place at last.We fought in the sheen of a wintry wood,The fair white snow was red with his blood;But his was the victory, for, as he died,He swore by the rood that he had not lied.Walter Herries Pollock.
IT is not mine to sing the stately grace,The great soul beaming in my lady’s face;To write no sounding odes to me is givenWherein her eyes outshine the stars in heaven.Not mine in flowing melodies to tellThe thousand beauties that I know so well;Not mine to serenade her ev’ry tress,And sit and sigh my love in idleness.But mine it is to follow in her train,Do her behests in pleasure or in pain,Burn at her altar love’s sweet frankincense,And worship her in distant reverence.Walter Herries Pollock.
IT is not mine to sing the stately grace,The great soul beaming in my lady’s face;To write no sounding odes to me is givenWherein her eyes outshine the stars in heaven.Not mine in flowing melodies to tellThe thousand beauties that I know so well;Not mine to serenade her ev’ry tress,And sit and sigh my love in idleness.But mine it is to follow in her train,Do her behests in pleasure or in pain,Burn at her altar love’s sweet frankincense,And worship her in distant reverence.Walter Herries Pollock.
IT is not mine to sing the stately grace,The great soul beaming in my lady’s face;To write no sounding odes to me is givenWherein her eyes outshine the stars in heaven.
Not mine in flowing melodies to tellThe thousand beauties that I know so well;Not mine to serenade her ev’ry tress,And sit and sigh my love in idleness.
But mine it is to follow in her train,Do her behests in pleasure or in pain,Burn at her altar love’s sweet frankincense,And worship her in distant reverence.Walter Herries Pollock.
FOR the man was she made by the Eden tree,To be decked in soft raiment and worn on his sleeve,To be fondled so long as they both agree,—A thing to take, or a thing to leave.But for her, let her live through one long summer eve—Just the stars, and the moon, and the man, and she—And her soul will escape her beyond reprieve,And, alas! the whole of her world is he.To-morrow brings plenty as lovesome, maybe;If she break when he handles her, why should he grieve?She is only one pearl in a pearl-crowded sea,—A thing to take, or a thing to leave.But she, though she knows he has kissed to deceive,And forsakes her, still only clings on at his knee—When life has gone, what further loss can bereave?And, alas! the whole of her world is he.For the man was she made upon Eden lea,To be helpmeet what time there is burden to heave,White-footed, to follow where he walks free,—A thing to take, or a thing to leave;White-fingered, to weave and to interweaveHer woof with his warp, and a tear two or three,Till clear his way out through her web he cleave,And, alas! the whole of her world is he.
FOR the man was she made by the Eden tree,To be decked in soft raiment and worn on his sleeve,To be fondled so long as they both agree,—A thing to take, or a thing to leave.But for her, let her live through one long summer eve—Just the stars, and the moon, and the man, and she—And her soul will escape her beyond reprieve,And, alas! the whole of her world is he.To-morrow brings plenty as lovesome, maybe;If she break when he handles her, why should he grieve?She is only one pearl in a pearl-crowded sea,—A thing to take, or a thing to leave.But she, though she knows he has kissed to deceive,And forsakes her, still only clings on at his knee—When life has gone, what further loss can bereave?And, alas! the whole of her world is he.For the man was she made upon Eden lea,To be helpmeet what time there is burden to heave,White-footed, to follow where he walks free,—A thing to take, or a thing to leave;White-fingered, to weave and to interweaveHer woof with his warp, and a tear two or three,Till clear his way out through her web he cleave,And, alas! the whole of her world is he.
FOR the man was she made by the Eden tree,To be decked in soft raiment and worn on his sleeve,To be fondled so long as they both agree,—A thing to take, or a thing to leave.But for her, let her live through one long summer eve—Just the stars, and the moon, and the man, and she—And her soul will escape her beyond reprieve,And, alas! the whole of her world is he.
To-morrow brings plenty as lovesome, maybe;If she break when he handles her, why should he grieve?She is only one pearl in a pearl-crowded sea,—A thing to take, or a thing to leave.But she, though she knows he has kissed to deceive,And forsakes her, still only clings on at his knee—When life has gone, what further loss can bereave?And, alas! the whole of her world is he.
For the man was she made upon Eden lea,To be helpmeet what time there is burden to heave,White-footed, to follow where he walks free,—A thing to take, or a thing to leave;White-fingered, to weave and to interweaveHer woof with his warp, and a tear two or three,Till clear his way out through her web he cleave,And, alas! the whole of her world is he.
DID he own her no more when he called her Eve,Than a thing to take, or a thing to leave?A flower-filled plot that unlocks to his key—But, alas! the whole of her world is he.May Probyn.
DID he own her no more when he called her Eve,Than a thing to take, or a thing to leave?A flower-filled plot that unlocks to his key—But, alas! the whole of her world is he.May Probyn.
DID he own her no more when he called her Eve,Than a thing to take, or a thing to leave?A flower-filled plot that unlocks to his key—But, alas! the whole of her world is he.May Probyn.
THE cowslip glowed, the tulip burned,The grass was green as green could be;There, as in sweet content we turned,Beneath the budding linden-tree,We saw the westering sunbeams shakeLarge glory o’er the mountain lake.The cushat cooed, the blackbird’s cryAbout the terrace garden rang;Still as we wooed, my love and I,The throstle still enraptured sang,And still the waters danced with glee,Beneath the budding linden-tree.The tulips trembled still with flame,The cowslips gleamed along the walk,Yet, dear one, when the last word came,And silence only seemed to talk,We looked and found the lake was gone,Flowers dim, birds hushed, and one star shone.Beloved! by many an up and down,O’er level lawns, unlevel ways,Through weeds and flowers, when birds had flownAnd when birds sang, have passed the daysSince our new dawn forbade the night;But lo! o’erhead Love’s star is bright.Hardwick Drummond Rawnsley.
THE cowslip glowed, the tulip burned,The grass was green as green could be;There, as in sweet content we turned,Beneath the budding linden-tree,We saw the westering sunbeams shakeLarge glory o’er the mountain lake.The cushat cooed, the blackbird’s cryAbout the terrace garden rang;Still as we wooed, my love and I,The throstle still enraptured sang,And still the waters danced with glee,Beneath the budding linden-tree.The tulips trembled still with flame,The cowslips gleamed along the walk,Yet, dear one, when the last word came,And silence only seemed to talk,We looked and found the lake was gone,Flowers dim, birds hushed, and one star shone.Beloved! by many an up and down,O’er level lawns, unlevel ways,Through weeds and flowers, when birds had flownAnd when birds sang, have passed the daysSince our new dawn forbade the night;But lo! o’erhead Love’s star is bright.Hardwick Drummond Rawnsley.
THE cowslip glowed, the tulip burned,The grass was green as green could be;There, as in sweet content we turned,Beneath the budding linden-tree,We saw the westering sunbeams shakeLarge glory o’er the mountain lake.
The cushat cooed, the blackbird’s cryAbout the terrace garden rang;Still as we wooed, my love and I,The throstle still enraptured sang,And still the waters danced with glee,Beneath the budding linden-tree.
The tulips trembled still with flame,The cowslips gleamed along the walk,Yet, dear one, when the last word came,And silence only seemed to talk,We looked and found the lake was gone,Flowers dim, birds hushed, and one star shone.
Beloved! by many an up and down,O’er level lawns, unlevel ways,Through weeds and flowers, when birds had flownAnd when birds sang, have passed the daysSince our new dawn forbade the night;But lo! o’erhead Love’s star is bright.Hardwick Drummond Rawnsley.
THERE’s never a rose upon the bush,And never a bud on any tree;In wood and field nor hint nor signOf one green thing for you of me.Come in, come in, sweet love of mine,And let the bitter weather be.Coated with ice the garden wall,The river reeds are stark and still;The wind goes plunging to the sea,And last week’s flakes the hollows fill.Come in, come in, sweet love, to me,And let the year blow as it will.Lizette Woodworth Reese.
THERE’s never a rose upon the bush,And never a bud on any tree;In wood and field nor hint nor signOf one green thing for you of me.Come in, come in, sweet love of mine,And let the bitter weather be.Coated with ice the garden wall,The river reeds are stark and still;The wind goes plunging to the sea,And last week’s flakes the hollows fill.Come in, come in, sweet love, to me,And let the year blow as it will.Lizette Woodworth Reese.
THERE’s never a rose upon the bush,And never a bud on any tree;In wood and field nor hint nor signOf one green thing for you of me.Come in, come in, sweet love of mine,And let the bitter weather be.
Coated with ice the garden wall,The river reeds are stark and still;The wind goes plunging to the sea,And last week’s flakes the hollows fill.Come in, come in, sweet love, to me,And let the year blow as it will.Lizette Woodworth Reese.
IN dream I saw Diana pass, Diana as of old,Across the green wood radiantly, attired in green and gold;With spear alert, with eyes afire, as they had seen the sun,And gave its glances back again, with brightness of their own.No human maid is she, I thought, who there so lightly faresUpon her sylvan empery, afar from our pale cares.She passed, and left me to that thought, who felt the sadder thenThat only once, and not again, she might be seen of men;Though constantly, by lawn and wood, and hanging mountain-side,My restless eye might dare to hunt the huntress in her pride.Without her all was lonely grown; I had no liking leftFor fern or foxglove bloom, of her bright grace bereft.And in that taking, in a bed of softest fern I lay,And found no joy of woodcraft left, the livelong summer day;When lo! at eve, a silvery horn, a questing hound, a cry,And swift, Diana came again, and sat her down thereby;And then I saw those radiant eyes were full of perfect rest,And found beneath the goddess there the woman’s softer breast.Ernest Rhys.
IN dream I saw Diana pass, Diana as of old,Across the green wood radiantly, attired in green and gold;With spear alert, with eyes afire, as they had seen the sun,And gave its glances back again, with brightness of their own.No human maid is she, I thought, who there so lightly faresUpon her sylvan empery, afar from our pale cares.She passed, and left me to that thought, who felt the sadder thenThat only once, and not again, she might be seen of men;Though constantly, by lawn and wood, and hanging mountain-side,My restless eye might dare to hunt the huntress in her pride.Without her all was lonely grown; I had no liking leftFor fern or foxglove bloom, of her bright grace bereft.And in that taking, in a bed of softest fern I lay,And found no joy of woodcraft left, the livelong summer day;When lo! at eve, a silvery horn, a questing hound, a cry,And swift, Diana came again, and sat her down thereby;And then I saw those radiant eyes were full of perfect rest,And found beneath the goddess there the woman’s softer breast.Ernest Rhys.
IN dream I saw Diana pass, Diana as of old,Across the green wood radiantly, attired in green and gold;With spear alert, with eyes afire, as they had seen the sun,And gave its glances back again, with brightness of their own.No human maid is she, I thought, who there so lightly faresUpon her sylvan empery, afar from our pale cares.
She passed, and left me to that thought, who felt the sadder thenThat only once, and not again, she might be seen of men;Though constantly, by lawn and wood, and hanging mountain-side,My restless eye might dare to hunt the huntress in her pride.Without her all was lonely grown; I had no liking leftFor fern or foxglove bloom, of her bright grace bereft.
And in that taking, in a bed of softest fern I lay,And found no joy of woodcraft left, the livelong summer day;When lo! at eve, a silvery horn, a questing hound, a cry,And swift, Diana came again, and sat her down thereby;And then I saw those radiant eyes were full of perfect rest,And found beneath the goddess there the woman’s softer breast.Ernest Rhys.
WHEN she comes home again! A thousand waysI fashion, to myself, the tendernessOf my glad welcome. I shall tremble—yes;And touch her, as when first in the old daysI touched her girlish hand, nor dared upraiseMine eyes, such was my faint heart’s sweet distress.Then silence, and the perfume of her dress:The room will sway a little, and a hazeCloy eyesight—soul-sight, even—for a space:And tears—yes; and the ache here in the throat,To know that I so ill deserve the placeHer arms make for me; and the sobbing noteI stay with kisses, ere the tearful faceAgain is hidden in the old embrace.James Whitcomb Riley.
WHEN she comes home again! A thousand waysI fashion, to myself, the tendernessOf my glad welcome. I shall tremble—yes;And touch her, as when first in the old daysI touched her girlish hand, nor dared upraiseMine eyes, such was my faint heart’s sweet distress.Then silence, and the perfume of her dress:The room will sway a little, and a hazeCloy eyesight—soul-sight, even—for a space:And tears—yes; and the ache here in the throat,To know that I so ill deserve the placeHer arms make for me; and the sobbing noteI stay with kisses, ere the tearful faceAgain is hidden in the old embrace.James Whitcomb Riley.
WHEN she comes home again! A thousand waysI fashion, to myself, the tendernessOf my glad welcome. I shall tremble—yes;And touch her, as when first in the old daysI touched her girlish hand, nor dared upraiseMine eyes, such was my faint heart’s sweet distress.Then silence, and the perfume of her dress:The room will sway a little, and a hazeCloy eyesight—soul-sight, even—for a space:And tears—yes; and the ache here in the throat,To know that I so ill deserve the placeHer arms make for me; and the sobbing noteI stay with kisses, ere the tearful faceAgain is hidden in the old embrace.James Whitcomb Riley.
THE wind blows down the dusty street;And through my soul that grievesIt brings a sudden odour sweet,A smell of poplar leaves.O leaves that herald in the spring,O freshness young and pure,Into my weary soul you bringThe vigour to endure.The wood is near but out of sight,Where all the poplars grow;Straight up and tall and silver white,They quiver in a row.My love is out of sight, but near;And through my soul that grievesA sudden memory wafts her hereAs fresh as poplar leaves.A. Mary F. Robinson.
THE wind blows down the dusty street;And through my soul that grievesIt brings a sudden odour sweet,A smell of poplar leaves.O leaves that herald in the spring,O freshness young and pure,Into my weary soul you bringThe vigour to endure.The wood is near but out of sight,Where all the poplars grow;Straight up and tall and silver white,They quiver in a row.My love is out of sight, but near;And through my soul that grievesA sudden memory wafts her hereAs fresh as poplar leaves.A. Mary F. Robinson.
THE wind blows down the dusty street;And through my soul that grievesIt brings a sudden odour sweet,A smell of poplar leaves.
O leaves that herald in the spring,O freshness young and pure,Into my weary soul you bringThe vigour to endure.
The wood is near but out of sight,Where all the poplars grow;Straight up and tall and silver white,They quiver in a row.
My love is out of sight, but near;And through my soul that grievesA sudden memory wafts her hereAs fresh as poplar leaves.A. Mary F. Robinson.
THE curtains were half drawn, the floor was sweptAnd strewn with rushes, rosemary and mayLay thick upon the bed on which I lay,Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept.He leaned above me, thinking that I sleptAnd could not hear him; but I heard him say,“Poor child, poor child!” and as he turned awayCame a deep silence, and I knew he wept.He did not touch the shroud, or raise the foldThat hid my face, or take my hand in his,Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head:He did not love me living; but once deadHe pitied me; and very sweet it isTo know he still is warm, though I am cold.Christina G. Rossetti.
THE curtains were half drawn, the floor was sweptAnd strewn with rushes, rosemary and mayLay thick upon the bed on which I lay,Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept.He leaned above me, thinking that I sleptAnd could not hear him; but I heard him say,“Poor child, poor child!” and as he turned awayCame a deep silence, and I knew he wept.He did not touch the shroud, or raise the foldThat hid my face, or take my hand in his,Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head:He did not love me living; but once deadHe pitied me; and very sweet it isTo know he still is warm, though I am cold.Christina G. Rossetti.
THE curtains were half drawn, the floor was sweptAnd strewn with rushes, rosemary and mayLay thick upon the bed on which I lay,Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept.He leaned above me, thinking that I sleptAnd could not hear him; but I heard him say,“Poor child, poor child!” and as he turned awayCame a deep silence, and I knew he wept.He did not touch the shroud, or raise the foldThat hid my face, or take my hand in his,Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head:He did not love me living; but once deadHe pitied me; and very sweet it isTo know he still is warm, though I am cold.Christina G. Rossetti.
SOMEWHERE or other there must surely beThe face not seen, the voice not heard,The heart that not yet—never yet—ah me!Made answer to my word.Somewhere or other, may be near or far;Past land and sea, clean out of sight;Beyond the wandering moon, beyond the starThat tracks her night by night.Somewhere or other, may be far or near;With just a wall, a hedge between;With just the last leaves of the dying yearFallen on a turf grown green.Christina G. Rossetti.
SOMEWHERE or other there must surely beThe face not seen, the voice not heard,The heart that not yet—never yet—ah me!Made answer to my word.Somewhere or other, may be near or far;Past land and sea, clean out of sight;Beyond the wandering moon, beyond the starThat tracks her night by night.Somewhere or other, may be far or near;With just a wall, a hedge between;With just the last leaves of the dying yearFallen on a turf grown green.Christina G. Rossetti.
SOMEWHERE or other there must surely beThe face not seen, the voice not heard,The heart that not yet—never yet—ah me!Made answer to my word.
Somewhere or other, may be near or far;Past land and sea, clean out of sight;Beyond the wandering moon, beyond the starThat tracks her night by night.
Somewhere or other, may be far or near;With just a wall, a hedge between;With just the last leaves of the dying yearFallen on a turf grown green.Christina G. Rossetti.
PEACE in her chamber, wheresoe’erIt be, a holy place:The thought still brings my soul such graceAs morning meadows wear.Whether it still be small and light,A maid’s who dreams alone,As from her orchard-gate the moonIts ceiling showed at night:Or whether, in a shadow denseAs nuptial hymns invoke,Innocent maidenhood awokeTo married innocence:Then still the thanks unheard awaitThe unconscious gift bequeathed;For there my soul this hour has breathedAn air inviolate.Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
PEACE in her chamber, wheresoe’erIt be, a holy place:The thought still brings my soul such graceAs morning meadows wear.Whether it still be small and light,A maid’s who dreams alone,As from her orchard-gate the moonIts ceiling showed at night:Or whether, in a shadow denseAs nuptial hymns invoke,Innocent maidenhood awokeTo married innocence:Then still the thanks unheard awaitThe unconscious gift bequeathed;For there my soul this hour has breathedAn air inviolate.Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
PEACE in her chamber, wheresoe’erIt be, a holy place:The thought still brings my soul such graceAs morning meadows wear.
Whether it still be small and light,A maid’s who dreams alone,As from her orchard-gate the moonIts ceiling showed at night:
Or whether, in a shadow denseAs nuptial hymns invoke,Innocent maidenhood awokeTo married innocence:
Then still the thanks unheard awaitThe unconscious gift bequeathed;For there my soul this hour has breathedAn air inviolate.Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
IMARKED all kindred Powers the heart finds fair:—Truth, with awed lips; and Hope, with eyes upcast;And Fame, whose loud wings fan the ashen PastTo signal-fires, Oblivion’s flight to scare;And Youth, with still some single golden hairUnto his shoulder clinging, since the lastEmbrace wherein two sweet arms held him fast;And Life, still wreathing flowers for Death to wear.Love’s throne was not with these; but far aboveAll passionate wind of welcome and farewellHe sat in breathless bowers they dream not of;Though Truth foreknow Love’s heart, and Hope foretell,And Fame be for Love’s sake desirable,And Youth be dear, and Life be sweet to Love.Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
IMARKED all kindred Powers the heart finds fair:—Truth, with awed lips; and Hope, with eyes upcast;And Fame, whose loud wings fan the ashen PastTo signal-fires, Oblivion’s flight to scare;And Youth, with still some single golden hairUnto his shoulder clinging, since the lastEmbrace wherein two sweet arms held him fast;And Life, still wreathing flowers for Death to wear.Love’s throne was not with these; but far aboveAll passionate wind of welcome and farewellHe sat in breathless bowers they dream not of;Though Truth foreknow Love’s heart, and Hope foretell,And Fame be for Love’s sake desirable,And Youth be dear, and Life be sweet to Love.Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
IMARKED all kindred Powers the heart finds fair:—Truth, with awed lips; and Hope, with eyes upcast;And Fame, whose loud wings fan the ashen PastTo signal-fires, Oblivion’s flight to scare;And Youth, with still some single golden hairUnto his shoulder clinging, since the lastEmbrace wherein two sweet arms held him fast;And Life, still wreathing flowers for Death to wear.
Love’s throne was not with these; but far aboveAll passionate wind of welcome and farewellHe sat in breathless bowers they dream not of;Though Truth foreknow Love’s heart, and Hope foretell,And Fame be for Love’s sake desirable,And Youth be dear, and Life be sweet to Love.Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
IHAVE been here before,But when or how I cannot tell:I know the grass beyond the door,The sweet keen smell,The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.You have been mine before,—How long ago I may not know:But just when at that swallow’s soarYour neck turned so,Some veil did fall,—I knew it all of yore.Has this been thus before?And shall not thus time’s eddying flightStill with our lives our loves restoreIn death’s despite,And day and night yield one delight once more?Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
IHAVE been here before,But when or how I cannot tell:I know the grass beyond the door,The sweet keen smell,The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.You have been mine before,—How long ago I may not know:But just when at that swallow’s soarYour neck turned so,Some veil did fall,—I knew it all of yore.Has this been thus before?And shall not thus time’s eddying flightStill with our lives our loves restoreIn death’s despite,And day and night yield one delight once more?Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
IHAVE been here before,But when or how I cannot tell:I know the grass beyond the door,The sweet keen smell,The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.
You have been mine before,—How long ago I may not know:But just when at that swallow’s soarYour neck turned so,Some veil did fall,—I knew it all of yore.
Has this been thus before?And shall not thus time’s eddying flightStill with our lives our loves restoreIn death’s despite,And day and night yield one delight once more?Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
BLAND air and leagues of immemorial blue;No subtlest hint of whitening rime or cold;A revel of rich colours, hue on hue,From radiant crimson to soft shades of gold.A vagueness in the undulant hill line,The flutter of a bird’s south-soaring wing;Æolian harmonies in groves of pine,And glad brook laughter like the mirth of spring.A sense of gracious calm afar and near,And yet a something wanting,—one fine rayFor consummation. Love, were you but here,Then were the day indeed a perfect day.Clinton Scollard.
BLAND air and leagues of immemorial blue;No subtlest hint of whitening rime or cold;A revel of rich colours, hue on hue,From radiant crimson to soft shades of gold.A vagueness in the undulant hill line,The flutter of a bird’s south-soaring wing;Æolian harmonies in groves of pine,And glad brook laughter like the mirth of spring.A sense of gracious calm afar and near,And yet a something wanting,—one fine rayFor consummation. Love, were you but here,Then were the day indeed a perfect day.Clinton Scollard.
BLAND air and leagues of immemorial blue;No subtlest hint of whitening rime or cold;A revel of rich colours, hue on hue,From radiant crimson to soft shades of gold.
A vagueness in the undulant hill line,The flutter of a bird’s south-soaring wing;Æolian harmonies in groves of pine,And glad brook laughter like the mirth of spring.
A sense of gracious calm afar and near,And yet a something wanting,—one fine rayFor consummation. Love, were you but here,Then were the day indeed a perfect day.Clinton Scollard.
POETS are singing, the whole world over,Of May in melody, joys for June;Dusting their feet in the careless clover,And filling their hearts with the blackbird’s tune.The “brown bright nightingale” strikes with pityThe sensitive heart of a count or clown;But where is the song for our leafy city,And where the rhymes for our lovely town?“Oh for the Thames and its rippling reaches,Where almond rushes and breezes sport!Take me a walk under Burnham Beeches;Give me a dinner at Hampton Court!”Poets, be still, though your hearts I harden;We’ve flowers by day, and have scents at dark;The limes are in leaf in the cockney garden,And lilacs blossom in Regent’s Park.“Come for a blow,” says a reckless fellow,Burn’d red and brown by passionate sun;“Come to the downs, where the gorse is yellowThe season of kisses has just begun!Come to the fields where bluebells shiver,Hear cuckoo’s carol, or plaint of dove:Come for a row on the silent river;Come to the meadows and learn to love!”Yes, I will come when this wealth is overOf softened colour and perfect tone:The lilac’s better than fields of clover;I’ll come when blossoming May has flown.When dust and dirt of a trampled cityHave dragged the yellow laburnum down,I’ll take my holiday,—more’s the pity,—And turn my back upon London town.Margaret! am I so wrong to love it,This misty town that your face shines through?A crown of blossom is waved above it;But heart and life of the whirl—’tis you!Margaret! pearl! I have sought and found you;And though the paths of the wind are free,I’ll follow the ways of the world around you,And build my nest on the nearest tree.Clement Scott.
POETS are singing, the whole world over,Of May in melody, joys for June;Dusting their feet in the careless clover,And filling their hearts with the blackbird’s tune.The “brown bright nightingale” strikes with pityThe sensitive heart of a count or clown;But where is the song for our leafy city,And where the rhymes for our lovely town?“Oh for the Thames and its rippling reaches,Where almond rushes and breezes sport!Take me a walk under Burnham Beeches;Give me a dinner at Hampton Court!”Poets, be still, though your hearts I harden;We’ve flowers by day, and have scents at dark;The limes are in leaf in the cockney garden,And lilacs blossom in Regent’s Park.“Come for a blow,” says a reckless fellow,Burn’d red and brown by passionate sun;“Come to the downs, where the gorse is yellowThe season of kisses has just begun!Come to the fields where bluebells shiver,Hear cuckoo’s carol, or plaint of dove:Come for a row on the silent river;Come to the meadows and learn to love!”Yes, I will come when this wealth is overOf softened colour and perfect tone:The lilac’s better than fields of clover;I’ll come when blossoming May has flown.When dust and dirt of a trampled cityHave dragged the yellow laburnum down,I’ll take my holiday,—more’s the pity,—And turn my back upon London town.Margaret! am I so wrong to love it,This misty town that your face shines through?A crown of blossom is waved above it;But heart and life of the whirl—’tis you!Margaret! pearl! I have sought and found you;And though the paths of the wind are free,I’ll follow the ways of the world around you,And build my nest on the nearest tree.Clement Scott.
POETS are singing, the whole world over,Of May in melody, joys for June;Dusting their feet in the careless clover,And filling their hearts with the blackbird’s tune.The “brown bright nightingale” strikes with pityThe sensitive heart of a count or clown;But where is the song for our leafy city,And where the rhymes for our lovely town?
“Oh for the Thames and its rippling reaches,Where almond rushes and breezes sport!Take me a walk under Burnham Beeches;Give me a dinner at Hampton Court!”Poets, be still, though your hearts I harden;We’ve flowers by day, and have scents at dark;The limes are in leaf in the cockney garden,And lilacs blossom in Regent’s Park.
“Come for a blow,” says a reckless fellow,Burn’d red and brown by passionate sun;“Come to the downs, where the gorse is yellowThe season of kisses has just begun!Come to the fields where bluebells shiver,Hear cuckoo’s carol, or plaint of dove:Come for a row on the silent river;Come to the meadows and learn to love!”
Yes, I will come when this wealth is overOf softened colour and perfect tone:The lilac’s better than fields of clover;I’ll come when blossoming May has flown.When dust and dirt of a trampled cityHave dragged the yellow laburnum down,I’ll take my holiday,—more’s the pity,—And turn my back upon London town.
Margaret! am I so wrong to love it,This misty town that your face shines through?A crown of blossom is waved above it;But heart and life of the whirl—’tis you!Margaret! pearl! I have sought and found you;And though the paths of the wind are free,I’ll follow the ways of the world around you,And build my nest on the nearest tree.Clement Scott.
LOVE in my heart! oh, heart of me, heart of me!Love is my tyrant, Love is supreme.What if he passeth, oh, heart of me, heart of me!Love is a phantom, and Life is a dream!What if he changeth, oh, heart of me, heart of me!Oh, can the waters be void of the wind?What if he wendeth afar and apart from me,What if he leave me to perish behind?What if he passeth, oh, heart of me, heart of me!A flame i’ the dusk, a breath of Desire?Nay, my sweet Love is the heart and the soul of me,And I am the innermost heart of his fire!Love in my heart! oh, heart of me, heart of me!Love is my tyrant, Love is supreme.What if he passeth, oh, heart of me, heart of me!Love is a phantom, and Life is a dream!William Sharp.
LOVE in my heart! oh, heart of me, heart of me!Love is my tyrant, Love is supreme.What if he passeth, oh, heart of me, heart of me!Love is a phantom, and Life is a dream!What if he changeth, oh, heart of me, heart of me!Oh, can the waters be void of the wind?What if he wendeth afar and apart from me,What if he leave me to perish behind?What if he passeth, oh, heart of me, heart of me!A flame i’ the dusk, a breath of Desire?Nay, my sweet Love is the heart and the soul of me,And I am the innermost heart of his fire!Love in my heart! oh, heart of me, heart of me!Love is my tyrant, Love is supreme.What if he passeth, oh, heart of me, heart of me!Love is a phantom, and Life is a dream!William Sharp.
LOVE in my heart! oh, heart of me, heart of me!Love is my tyrant, Love is supreme.What if he passeth, oh, heart of me, heart of me!Love is a phantom, and Life is a dream!
What if he changeth, oh, heart of me, heart of me!Oh, can the waters be void of the wind?What if he wendeth afar and apart from me,What if he leave me to perish behind?
What if he passeth, oh, heart of me, heart of me!A flame i’ the dusk, a breath of Desire?Nay, my sweet Love is the heart and the soul of me,And I am the innermost heart of his fire!
Love in my heart! oh, heart of me, heart of me!Love is my tyrant, Love is supreme.What if he passeth, oh, heart of me, heart of me!Love is a phantom, and Life is a dream!William Sharp.
IN and out the osier beds, all along the shallows,Lifts and laughs the soft south wind, or swoons among the grasses.But, ah! whose following feet are these that bend the tall marsh-mallows?Who laughs so low and sweet? Who sighs—and passes?Flower of my heart, my darling, why so slowlyLift’st thou thine eyes to mine, sweet wells of gladness?Too deep this new-found joy, and this new pain too holy;Or is there dread in thine heart of this divinest madness?Who sighs with longing there? who laughs alow—and passes?Whose following feet are these that bend the tall marsh-mallows?Who comes upon the wind that stirs the heavy seeding grassesIn and out the osier beds, and hither through the shallows?Flower of my heart, my Dream, who whispers near so gladly?Whose is the golden sunshine-net o’erspread for capture?Lift, lift thine eyes to mine, who love so wildly, madly—Those eyes of brave desire, deep wells o’er-brimmed with rapture.William Sharp.
IN and out the osier beds, all along the shallows,Lifts and laughs the soft south wind, or swoons among the grasses.But, ah! whose following feet are these that bend the tall marsh-mallows?Who laughs so low and sweet? Who sighs—and passes?Flower of my heart, my darling, why so slowlyLift’st thou thine eyes to mine, sweet wells of gladness?Too deep this new-found joy, and this new pain too holy;Or is there dread in thine heart of this divinest madness?Who sighs with longing there? who laughs alow—and passes?Whose following feet are these that bend the tall marsh-mallows?Who comes upon the wind that stirs the heavy seeding grassesIn and out the osier beds, and hither through the shallows?Flower of my heart, my Dream, who whispers near so gladly?Whose is the golden sunshine-net o’erspread for capture?Lift, lift thine eyes to mine, who love so wildly, madly—Those eyes of brave desire, deep wells o’er-brimmed with rapture.William Sharp.
IN and out the osier beds, all along the shallows,Lifts and laughs the soft south wind, or swoons among the grasses.But, ah! whose following feet are these that bend the tall marsh-mallows?Who laughs so low and sweet? Who sighs—and passes?
Flower of my heart, my darling, why so slowlyLift’st thou thine eyes to mine, sweet wells of gladness?Too deep this new-found joy, and this new pain too holy;Or is there dread in thine heart of this divinest madness?
Who sighs with longing there? who laughs alow—and passes?Whose following feet are these that bend the tall marsh-mallows?Who comes upon the wind that stirs the heavy seeding grassesIn and out the osier beds, and hither through the shallows?
Flower of my heart, my Dream, who whispers near so gladly?Whose is the golden sunshine-net o’erspread for capture?Lift, lift thine eyes to mine, who love so wildly, madly—Those eyes of brave desire, deep wells o’er-brimmed with rapture.William Sharp.
“Love me, or I am slain!” I cried, and meantBitterly true each word. Nights, morns, slipped by,Moons, circling suns, yet still alive am I;But shame to me, if my best time be spent.On this perverse, blind passion! Are we sentUpon a planet just to mate and die,A man no more than some pale butterflyThat yields his day to nature’s sole intent?Or is my life but Marguerite’s ox-eyed flower,That I should stand and pluck and fling away,One after one, the petal of each hour,Like a love-dreamy girl, and only say,“Loves me,” and “loves me not,” and “loves me”? Nay!Let the man’s mind awake to manhood’s power.Edward Rowland Sill.
“Love me, or I am slain!” I cried, and meantBitterly true each word. Nights, morns, slipped by,Moons, circling suns, yet still alive am I;But shame to me, if my best time be spent.On this perverse, blind passion! Are we sentUpon a planet just to mate and die,A man no more than some pale butterflyThat yields his day to nature’s sole intent?Or is my life but Marguerite’s ox-eyed flower,That I should stand and pluck and fling away,One after one, the petal of each hour,Like a love-dreamy girl, and only say,“Loves me,” and “loves me not,” and “loves me”? Nay!Let the man’s mind awake to manhood’s power.Edward Rowland Sill.
“Love me, or I am slain!” I cried, and meantBitterly true each word. Nights, morns, slipped by,Moons, circling suns, yet still alive am I;But shame to me, if my best time be spent.
On this perverse, blind passion! Are we sentUpon a planet just to mate and die,A man no more than some pale butterflyThat yields his day to nature’s sole intent?
Or is my life but Marguerite’s ox-eyed flower,That I should stand and pluck and fling away,One after one, the petal of each hour,Like a love-dreamy girl, and only say,“Loves me,” and “loves me not,” and “loves me”? Nay!Let the man’s mind awake to manhood’s power.Edward Rowland Sill.
WE’re all alone, we’re all alone!The moon and stars are dead and gone;The night’s at deep, the wind asleep,And thou and I are all alone!What care have we though life there be?Tumult and life are not for me!Silence and sleep about us creep;Tumult and life are not for thee!How late it is since such as thisHad topped the height of breathing bliss!And now we keep an iron sleep,—In that grave thou, and I in this!Harriet Prescott Spofford.
WE’re all alone, we’re all alone!The moon and stars are dead and gone;The night’s at deep, the wind asleep,And thou and I are all alone!What care have we though life there be?Tumult and life are not for me!Silence and sleep about us creep;Tumult and life are not for thee!How late it is since such as thisHad topped the height of breathing bliss!And now we keep an iron sleep,—In that grave thou, and I in this!Harriet Prescott Spofford.
WE’re all alone, we’re all alone!The moon and stars are dead and gone;The night’s at deep, the wind asleep,And thou and I are all alone!
What care have we though life there be?Tumult and life are not for me!Silence and sleep about us creep;Tumult and life are not for thee!
How late it is since such as thisHad topped the height of breathing bliss!And now we keep an iron sleep,—In that grave thou, and I in this!Harriet Prescott Spofford.
WHEN the late leaves lit all the place,He left her with her ashen face;“We shall not meet!” he lightly cried;“Good-bye, sweetheart, the world is wide.”Though bright the sunshine on that day,Though the bare boughs around her lay,She thought in blackened shadow stoodThe melancholy autumn wood.She bent, and lifted from the sodA leaf whereon his foot had trod,—An idle leaf, but dead and sere,It held the heart’s blood of a year!Harriet Prescott Spofford.
WHEN the late leaves lit all the place,He left her with her ashen face;“We shall not meet!” he lightly cried;“Good-bye, sweetheart, the world is wide.”Though bright the sunshine on that day,Though the bare boughs around her lay,She thought in blackened shadow stoodThe melancholy autumn wood.She bent, and lifted from the sodA leaf whereon his foot had trod,—An idle leaf, but dead and sere,It held the heart’s blood of a year!Harriet Prescott Spofford.
WHEN the late leaves lit all the place,He left her with her ashen face;“We shall not meet!” he lightly cried;“Good-bye, sweetheart, the world is wide.”
Though bright the sunshine on that day,Though the bare boughs around her lay,She thought in blackened shadow stoodThe melancholy autumn wood.
She bent, and lifted from the sodA leaf whereon his foot had trod,—An idle leaf, but dead and sere,It held the heart’s blood of a year!Harriet Prescott Spofford.
IKNOW not if moonlight or starlightBe soft on the land or the sea,—I catch but the near light, the far light,Of eyes that are burning for me;The scent of the night, of the roses,May burden the air for thee, sweet,—’Tis only the breath of thy sighingI know, as I lie at thy feet.The winds may be sobbing or singing,Their touch may be fervent or cold,The night-bells may toll or be ringing,—I care not, while thee I enfold!The feast may go on, and the musicBe scattered in ecstasy round,—Thy whisper, “I love thee! I love thee!”Hath flooded my soul with its sound.I think not of time that is flying,How short is the hour I have won,How near is this living to dying,How the shadow still follows the sun;There is naught upon earth, no desire,Worth a thought, though ’twere had by a sign!I love thee! I love thee! bring nigherThy spirit, thy kisses to mine.Edmund Clarence Stedman.
IKNOW not if moonlight or starlightBe soft on the land or the sea,—I catch but the near light, the far light,Of eyes that are burning for me;The scent of the night, of the roses,May burden the air for thee, sweet,—’Tis only the breath of thy sighingI know, as I lie at thy feet.The winds may be sobbing or singing,Their touch may be fervent or cold,The night-bells may toll or be ringing,—I care not, while thee I enfold!The feast may go on, and the musicBe scattered in ecstasy round,—Thy whisper, “I love thee! I love thee!”Hath flooded my soul with its sound.I think not of time that is flying,How short is the hour I have won,How near is this living to dying,How the shadow still follows the sun;There is naught upon earth, no desire,Worth a thought, though ’twere had by a sign!I love thee! I love thee! bring nigherThy spirit, thy kisses to mine.Edmund Clarence Stedman.
IKNOW not if moonlight or starlightBe soft on the land or the sea,—I catch but the near light, the far light,Of eyes that are burning for me;The scent of the night, of the roses,May burden the air for thee, sweet,—’Tis only the breath of thy sighingI know, as I lie at thy feet.
The winds may be sobbing or singing,Their touch may be fervent or cold,The night-bells may toll or be ringing,—I care not, while thee I enfold!The feast may go on, and the musicBe scattered in ecstasy round,—Thy whisper, “I love thee! I love thee!”Hath flooded my soul with its sound.
I think not of time that is flying,How short is the hour I have won,How near is this living to dying,How the shadow still follows the sun;There is naught upon earth, no desire,Worth a thought, though ’twere had by a sign!I love thee! I love thee! bring nigherThy spirit, thy kisses to mine.Edmund Clarence Stedman.
OH! faint delicious spring-time violet,Thine odour, like a key,Turns noiselessly in memory’s wards to letA thought of sorrow free.The breath of distant fields upon my browBlows through that open doorThe sound of wind-borne bells more sweet and lowAnd sadder than of yore.It comes afar from that beloved place,And that beloved hour,When Life hung ripening in Love’s golden grace,Like grapes above a bower.A spring goes singing through its reedy grass,The lark sings o’er my headDrowned in the sky—oh, pass, ye visions, pass!I would that I were dead.Why hast thou opened that forbidden doorFrom which I ever flee?O vanished Joy! O Love that art no more,Let my vexed spirit be!O violet! thy odour through my brainHath searched, and stung to griefThis sunny day, as if a curse did stainThy velvet leaf.W. W. Story.
OH! faint delicious spring-time violet,Thine odour, like a key,Turns noiselessly in memory’s wards to letA thought of sorrow free.The breath of distant fields upon my browBlows through that open doorThe sound of wind-borne bells more sweet and lowAnd sadder than of yore.It comes afar from that beloved place,And that beloved hour,When Life hung ripening in Love’s golden grace,Like grapes above a bower.A spring goes singing through its reedy grass,The lark sings o’er my headDrowned in the sky—oh, pass, ye visions, pass!I would that I were dead.Why hast thou opened that forbidden doorFrom which I ever flee?O vanished Joy! O Love that art no more,Let my vexed spirit be!O violet! thy odour through my brainHath searched, and stung to griefThis sunny day, as if a curse did stainThy velvet leaf.W. W. Story.
OH! faint delicious spring-time violet,Thine odour, like a key,Turns noiselessly in memory’s wards to letA thought of sorrow free.
The breath of distant fields upon my browBlows through that open doorThe sound of wind-borne bells more sweet and lowAnd sadder than of yore.
It comes afar from that beloved place,And that beloved hour,When Life hung ripening in Love’s golden grace,Like grapes above a bower.
A spring goes singing through its reedy grass,The lark sings o’er my headDrowned in the sky—oh, pass, ye visions, pass!I would that I were dead.
Why hast thou opened that forbidden doorFrom which I ever flee?O vanished Joy! O Love that art no more,Let my vexed spirit be!
O violet! thy odour through my brainHath searched, and stung to griefThis sunny day, as if a curse did stainThy velvet leaf.W. W. Story.
FROM out the past she comes to me,My Lady whom I loved long syne:Her face is very fair to see,Her gray eyes still with love-light shine,I needs must think she still is mine.Once—in those old years long ago—I waited at the hour of dawn.And, with the first faint Eastern glow—Before the sun his sword had drawnAnd flushed its light the world upon,My Lady’s true love did I know!But now at eve she comes—I standAlone. Among the autumn treesHer white robe glimmers, and the breezeWafts me a ghostly fragrance rare.Ah me! No rose doth she now bear—But crimson poppies in her hand.Edward Fairbrother Strange.
FROM out the past she comes to me,My Lady whom I loved long syne:Her face is very fair to see,Her gray eyes still with love-light shine,I needs must think she still is mine.Once—in those old years long ago—I waited at the hour of dawn.And, with the first faint Eastern glow—Before the sun his sword had drawnAnd flushed its light the world upon,My Lady’s true love did I know!But now at eve she comes—I standAlone. Among the autumn treesHer white robe glimmers, and the breezeWafts me a ghostly fragrance rare.Ah me! No rose doth she now bear—But crimson poppies in her hand.Edward Fairbrother Strange.
FROM out the past she comes to me,My Lady whom I loved long syne:Her face is very fair to see,Her gray eyes still with love-light shine,I needs must think she still is mine.
Once—in those old years long ago—I waited at the hour of dawn.And, with the first faint Eastern glow—Before the sun his sword had drawnAnd flushed its light the world upon,My Lady’s true love did I know!
But now at eve she comes—I standAlone. Among the autumn treesHer white robe glimmers, and the breezeWafts me a ghostly fragrance rare.Ah me! No rose doth she now bear—But crimson poppies in her hand.Edward Fairbrother Strange.
FOR a day and night, Love sang to us, played with us,Folded us round from the dark and the light;And our hearts were fulfilled of the music he made with us,Made with our hearts and our lips while he stayed with us,Stayed in mid passage his pinions from flightFor a day and a night.From his foes that kept watch with his wings had he hidden us,Covered us close from the eyes that would smite,From the feet that had tracked and the tongues that had chidden us,Sheltering in shade of the myrtles forbidden us,Spirit and flesh growing one with delightFor a day and a night.But his wings will not rest, and his feet will not stay for us:Morning is here in the joy of its might;With his breath has he sweetened a night and a day for us:Now let him pass, and the myrtles make way for us;Love can but last in us here at his heightFor a day and a night.Algernon Charles Swinburne.
FOR a day and night, Love sang to us, played with us,Folded us round from the dark and the light;And our hearts were fulfilled of the music he made with us,Made with our hearts and our lips while he stayed with us,Stayed in mid passage his pinions from flightFor a day and a night.From his foes that kept watch with his wings had he hidden us,Covered us close from the eyes that would smite,From the feet that had tracked and the tongues that had chidden us,Sheltering in shade of the myrtles forbidden us,Spirit and flesh growing one with delightFor a day and a night.But his wings will not rest, and his feet will not stay for us:Morning is here in the joy of its might;With his breath has he sweetened a night and a day for us:Now let him pass, and the myrtles make way for us;Love can but last in us here at his heightFor a day and a night.Algernon Charles Swinburne.
FOR a day and night, Love sang to us, played with us,Folded us round from the dark and the light;And our hearts were fulfilled of the music he made with us,Made with our hearts and our lips while he stayed with us,Stayed in mid passage his pinions from flightFor a day and a night.
From his foes that kept watch with his wings had he hidden us,Covered us close from the eyes that would smite,From the feet that had tracked and the tongues that had chidden us,Sheltering in shade of the myrtles forbidden us,Spirit and flesh growing one with delightFor a day and a night.
But his wings will not rest, and his feet will not stay for us:Morning is here in the joy of its might;With his breath has he sweetened a night and a day for us:Now let him pass, and the myrtles make way for us;Love can but last in us here at his heightFor a day and a night.Algernon Charles Swinburne.
THERE were four apples on the bough,Half gold, half red, that one might knowThe blood was ripe inside the core;The colour of the leaves was moreLike stems of yellow corn that growThrough all the gold June meadow’s floor.The warm smell of the fruit was goodTo feed on, and the split green wood,With all its bearded lips and stainsOf mosses in the clover veins,Most pleasant, if one lay or stoodIn sunshine or in happy rains.There were four apples on the tree,Red-stained through gold, that all might seeThe sun went warm from core to rind;The green leaves made the summer blindIn that soft place they kept for meWith golden apples shut behind.The leaves caught gold across the sun,And where the bluest air begun,Thirsted for song to help the heat;As I to feel my lady’s feetDraw close before the day were done:Both lips grew dry with dreams of it.In the mute August afternoonThey trembled to some undertuneOf music in the silver air:Great pleasure was it to be thereTill green turned duskier, and the moonColoured the corn-sheaves like gold hair.That August time it was delightTo watch the red moon’s wane to white’Twixt gray-seamed stems of apple-trees:A sense of heavy harmoniesGrew on the growth of patient night,More sweet than shapen music is.But some three hours before the moonThe air, still eager from the noon,Flagged after heat, not wholly dead;Against the stem I leant my head;The colour soothed me like a tune,Green leaves all round the gold and red.I lay there till the warm smell grewMore sharp, when flecks of yellow dewBetween the round ripe leaves had blurredThe rind with stain and wet; I heardA wind that blew and breathed and blew,Too weak to alter its one word.The wet leaves next the gentle fruitFelt smoother, and the brown tree rootFelt the mould warmer: I, too, felt(As water feels the slow gold meltRight through it when the day burns mute)The peace of time wherein love dwelt.There were four apples on the tree,Gold stained on red that all might seeThe sweet blood filled them to the core:The colour of her hair is moreLike stems of fair faint gold, that beMown from the harvest’s middle floor.Algernon Charles Swinburne.
THERE were four apples on the bough,Half gold, half red, that one might knowThe blood was ripe inside the core;The colour of the leaves was moreLike stems of yellow corn that growThrough all the gold June meadow’s floor.The warm smell of the fruit was goodTo feed on, and the split green wood,With all its bearded lips and stainsOf mosses in the clover veins,Most pleasant, if one lay or stoodIn sunshine or in happy rains.There were four apples on the tree,Red-stained through gold, that all might seeThe sun went warm from core to rind;The green leaves made the summer blindIn that soft place they kept for meWith golden apples shut behind.The leaves caught gold across the sun,And where the bluest air begun,Thirsted for song to help the heat;As I to feel my lady’s feetDraw close before the day were done:Both lips grew dry with dreams of it.In the mute August afternoonThey trembled to some undertuneOf music in the silver air:Great pleasure was it to be thereTill green turned duskier, and the moonColoured the corn-sheaves like gold hair.That August time it was delightTo watch the red moon’s wane to white’Twixt gray-seamed stems of apple-trees:A sense of heavy harmoniesGrew on the growth of patient night,More sweet than shapen music is.But some three hours before the moonThe air, still eager from the noon,Flagged after heat, not wholly dead;Against the stem I leant my head;The colour soothed me like a tune,Green leaves all round the gold and red.I lay there till the warm smell grewMore sharp, when flecks of yellow dewBetween the round ripe leaves had blurredThe rind with stain and wet; I heardA wind that blew and breathed and blew,Too weak to alter its one word.The wet leaves next the gentle fruitFelt smoother, and the brown tree rootFelt the mould warmer: I, too, felt(As water feels the slow gold meltRight through it when the day burns mute)The peace of time wherein love dwelt.There were four apples on the tree,Gold stained on red that all might seeThe sweet blood filled them to the core:The colour of her hair is moreLike stems of fair faint gold, that beMown from the harvest’s middle floor.Algernon Charles Swinburne.
THERE were four apples on the bough,Half gold, half red, that one might knowThe blood was ripe inside the core;The colour of the leaves was moreLike stems of yellow corn that growThrough all the gold June meadow’s floor.
The warm smell of the fruit was goodTo feed on, and the split green wood,With all its bearded lips and stainsOf mosses in the clover veins,Most pleasant, if one lay or stoodIn sunshine or in happy rains.
There were four apples on the tree,Red-stained through gold, that all might seeThe sun went warm from core to rind;The green leaves made the summer blindIn that soft place they kept for meWith golden apples shut behind.
The leaves caught gold across the sun,And where the bluest air begun,Thirsted for song to help the heat;As I to feel my lady’s feetDraw close before the day were done:Both lips grew dry with dreams of it.
In the mute August afternoonThey trembled to some undertuneOf music in the silver air:Great pleasure was it to be thereTill green turned duskier, and the moonColoured the corn-sheaves like gold hair.
That August time it was delightTo watch the red moon’s wane to white’Twixt gray-seamed stems of apple-trees:A sense of heavy harmoniesGrew on the growth of patient night,More sweet than shapen music is.
But some three hours before the moonThe air, still eager from the noon,Flagged after heat, not wholly dead;Against the stem I leant my head;The colour soothed me like a tune,Green leaves all round the gold and red.
I lay there till the warm smell grewMore sharp, when flecks of yellow dewBetween the round ripe leaves had blurredThe rind with stain and wet; I heardA wind that blew and breathed and blew,Too weak to alter its one word.
The wet leaves next the gentle fruitFelt smoother, and the brown tree rootFelt the mould warmer: I, too, felt(As water feels the slow gold meltRight through it when the day burns mute)The peace of time wherein love dwelt.
There were four apples on the tree,Gold stained on red that all might seeThe sweet blood filled them to the core:The colour of her hair is moreLike stems of fair faint gold, that beMown from the harvest’s middle floor.Algernon Charles Swinburne.
BETWEEN the sunset and the seaMy love laid hands and lips on me.Of sweet came sour, of day came night,Of long desire came brief delight:Ah, love, and what thing came of theeBetween the sea-downs and the sea?Between the sea-mark and the seaJoy grew to grief, grief grew to me;Love turned to tears, and tears to fire,And dead delight to new desire;Love’s talk, love’s touch there seemed to beBetween the sea-sand and the sea.Between the sundown and the seaLove watched one hour of love with me;Then down the all-golden water-waysHis feet flew after yesterdays;I saw them come and saw them fleeBetween the sea-foam and the sea.Between the sea-strand and the seaLove fell on sleep, sleep fell on me;The first star saw twain turn to oneBetween the moonrise and the sun;The next, that saw not love, saw meBetween the sea-banks and the sea.Algernon Charles Swinburne.
BETWEEN the sunset and the seaMy love laid hands and lips on me.Of sweet came sour, of day came night,Of long desire came brief delight:Ah, love, and what thing came of theeBetween the sea-downs and the sea?Between the sea-mark and the seaJoy grew to grief, grief grew to me;Love turned to tears, and tears to fire,And dead delight to new desire;Love’s talk, love’s touch there seemed to beBetween the sea-sand and the sea.Between the sundown and the seaLove watched one hour of love with me;Then down the all-golden water-waysHis feet flew after yesterdays;I saw them come and saw them fleeBetween the sea-foam and the sea.Between the sea-strand and the seaLove fell on sleep, sleep fell on me;The first star saw twain turn to oneBetween the moonrise and the sun;The next, that saw not love, saw meBetween the sea-banks and the sea.Algernon Charles Swinburne.
BETWEEN the sunset and the seaMy love laid hands and lips on me.Of sweet came sour, of day came night,Of long desire came brief delight:Ah, love, and what thing came of theeBetween the sea-downs and the sea?
Between the sea-mark and the seaJoy grew to grief, grief grew to me;Love turned to tears, and tears to fire,And dead delight to new desire;Love’s talk, love’s touch there seemed to beBetween the sea-sand and the sea.
Between the sundown and the seaLove watched one hour of love with me;Then down the all-golden water-waysHis feet flew after yesterdays;I saw them come and saw them fleeBetween the sea-foam and the sea.
Between the sea-strand and the seaLove fell on sleep, sleep fell on me;The first star saw twain turn to oneBetween the moonrise and the sun;The next, that saw not love, saw meBetween the sea-banks and the sea.Algernon Charles Swinburne.
ASK nothing more of me, sweet:All I can give you I give.Heart of my heart, were it more,More would be laid at your feet;Love that should help you to live,Song that should spur you to soar.All things were nothing to give,Once to have sense of you more,Touch you and taste of you, sweet,Think you and breathe you, and live,Swept of your wings as they soar,Trodden by chance of your feet.I that have love and no moreGive you but love of you, sweet;He that hath more let him give;He that hath wings, let him soar;Mine is the heart at your feetHere, that must love you to live.Algernon Charles Swinburne.
ASK nothing more of me, sweet:All I can give you I give.Heart of my heart, were it more,More would be laid at your feet;Love that should help you to live,Song that should spur you to soar.All things were nothing to give,Once to have sense of you more,Touch you and taste of you, sweet,Think you and breathe you, and live,Swept of your wings as they soar,Trodden by chance of your feet.I that have love and no moreGive you but love of you, sweet;He that hath more let him give;He that hath wings, let him soar;Mine is the heart at your feetHere, that must love you to live.Algernon Charles Swinburne.
ASK nothing more of me, sweet:All I can give you I give.Heart of my heart, were it more,More would be laid at your feet;Love that should help you to live,Song that should spur you to soar.
All things were nothing to give,Once to have sense of you more,Touch you and taste of you, sweet,Think you and breathe you, and live,Swept of your wings as they soar,Trodden by chance of your feet.
I that have love and no moreGive you but love of you, sweet;He that hath more let him give;He that hath wings, let him soar;Mine is the heart at your feetHere, that must love you to live.Algernon Charles Swinburne.