ALL the phantoms of the future, all the spectres of the past,In the wakeful night came round me, sighing, crying, “Fool, beware!Check the feeling o’er thee stealing! Let thy first love be thy last!Or, if love again thou must, at least this fatal love forbear!”Marah Amara!Now the dark breaks. Now the lark wakes. Now their voices fleet away.And the breeze about the blossom, and the ripple in the reed,And the beams and buds and birds begin to whisper, sing, or say,“Love her, love her, for she loves thee!” And I know not which to heed.Cara Amara!Robert, Lord Lytton.
ALL the phantoms of the future, all the spectres of the past,In the wakeful night came round me, sighing, crying, “Fool, beware!Check the feeling o’er thee stealing! Let thy first love be thy last!Or, if love again thou must, at least this fatal love forbear!”Marah Amara!Now the dark breaks. Now the lark wakes. Now their voices fleet away.And the breeze about the blossom, and the ripple in the reed,And the beams and buds and birds begin to whisper, sing, or say,“Love her, love her, for she loves thee!” And I know not which to heed.Cara Amara!Robert, Lord Lytton.
ALL the phantoms of the future, all the spectres of the past,In the wakeful night came round me, sighing, crying, “Fool, beware!Check the feeling o’er thee stealing! Let thy first love be thy last!Or, if love again thou must, at least this fatal love forbear!”Marah Amara!
Now the dark breaks. Now the lark wakes. Now their voices fleet away.And the breeze about the blossom, and the ripple in the reed,And the beams and buds and birds begin to whisper, sing, or say,“Love her, love her, for she loves thee!” And I know not which to heed.Cara Amara!Robert, Lord Lytton.
THERE is a certain garden where I knowThat flowers flourish in a poet’s spring,Where aye young birds their amorous matins sing,And never ill wind comes, nor any snow.But if you wonder where so fair a show,Where such eternal pleasure may be seen,I say, my memory keeps that garden green,Wherein I loved my first love long ago.Justin Huntly McCarthy.
THERE is a certain garden where I knowThat flowers flourish in a poet’s spring,Where aye young birds their amorous matins sing,And never ill wind comes, nor any snow.But if you wonder where so fair a show,Where such eternal pleasure may be seen,I say, my memory keeps that garden green,Wherein I loved my first love long ago.Justin Huntly McCarthy.
THERE is a certain garden where I knowThat flowers flourish in a poet’s spring,Where aye young birds their amorous matins sing,And never ill wind comes, nor any snow.
But if you wonder where so fair a show,Where such eternal pleasure may be seen,I say, my memory keeps that garden green,Wherein I loved my first love long ago.Justin Huntly McCarthy.
IF I were a monk, and thou wert a nun,Pacing it wearily, wearily,From chapel to cell till day were doneWearily, wearily,Oh! how would it be with these hearts of ours,That need the sunshine and smiles and flowers?To prayer, to prayer, at the matins’ call,Morning foul or fair;Such prayer as from lifeless lips may fall—Words, but hardly prayer;Vainly trying the thoughts to raiseWhich in the sunshine would burst in praise.Thou, in the glory of cloudless noon,The God revealing,Turning thy face from the boundless boon,Painfully kneeling;Or in thy chamber’s still solitude,Bending thy head o’er the legend rude.I, in a cool and lonely nook,Gloomily, gloomily,Poring over some musty bookThoughtfully, thoughtfully;Or on the parchment margin unrolled,Painting quaint pictures in purple and gold.Perchance in slow procession to meet,Wearily, wearily;In an antique, narrow, high-gabled street,Wearily, wearily;Thy dark eyes lifted to mine, and thenHeavily sinking to earth again.Sunshine and air! warmness and spring!Merrily, merrily!Back to its cell each weary thing,Wearily, wearily!And the heart so withered and dry and old,Most at home in the cloister cold.Thou on thy knees at the vespers’ call,Wearily, wearily;I looking up on the darkening wall,Wearily, wearily;The chime so sweet to the boat at sea,Listless and dead to thee and me!Then to the lone couch at death of day,Wearily, wearily;Rising at midnight again to prayWearily, wearily;And if through the dark those eyes looked in,Sending them far as a thought of sin.And then when thy spirit was passing away,Dreamily, dreamily;The earth-born dwelling returning to clay,Sleepily, sleepily;Over thee held the crucified Best,But no warm face to thy cold cheek pressed.And when my spirit was passing away,Dreamily, dreamily;The gray head lying ’mong ashes graySleepily, sleepily;No hovering angel-woman aboveWaiting to clasp me in deathless love.But now, beloved, thy hand in mine,Peacefully, peacefully;My arm around thee, my lips on thine,Lovingly, lovingly,—Oh! is not a better thing to us givenThan wearily going alone to heaven?George Macdonald.
IF I were a monk, and thou wert a nun,Pacing it wearily, wearily,From chapel to cell till day were doneWearily, wearily,Oh! how would it be with these hearts of ours,That need the sunshine and smiles and flowers?To prayer, to prayer, at the matins’ call,Morning foul or fair;Such prayer as from lifeless lips may fall—Words, but hardly prayer;Vainly trying the thoughts to raiseWhich in the sunshine would burst in praise.Thou, in the glory of cloudless noon,The God revealing,Turning thy face from the boundless boon,Painfully kneeling;Or in thy chamber’s still solitude,Bending thy head o’er the legend rude.I, in a cool and lonely nook,Gloomily, gloomily,Poring over some musty bookThoughtfully, thoughtfully;Or on the parchment margin unrolled,Painting quaint pictures in purple and gold.Perchance in slow procession to meet,Wearily, wearily;In an antique, narrow, high-gabled street,Wearily, wearily;Thy dark eyes lifted to mine, and thenHeavily sinking to earth again.Sunshine and air! warmness and spring!Merrily, merrily!Back to its cell each weary thing,Wearily, wearily!And the heart so withered and dry and old,Most at home in the cloister cold.Thou on thy knees at the vespers’ call,Wearily, wearily;I looking up on the darkening wall,Wearily, wearily;The chime so sweet to the boat at sea,Listless and dead to thee and me!Then to the lone couch at death of day,Wearily, wearily;Rising at midnight again to prayWearily, wearily;And if through the dark those eyes looked in,Sending them far as a thought of sin.And then when thy spirit was passing away,Dreamily, dreamily;The earth-born dwelling returning to clay,Sleepily, sleepily;Over thee held the crucified Best,But no warm face to thy cold cheek pressed.And when my spirit was passing away,Dreamily, dreamily;The gray head lying ’mong ashes graySleepily, sleepily;No hovering angel-woman aboveWaiting to clasp me in deathless love.But now, beloved, thy hand in mine,Peacefully, peacefully;My arm around thee, my lips on thine,Lovingly, lovingly,—Oh! is not a better thing to us givenThan wearily going alone to heaven?George Macdonald.
IF I were a monk, and thou wert a nun,Pacing it wearily, wearily,From chapel to cell till day were doneWearily, wearily,Oh! how would it be with these hearts of ours,That need the sunshine and smiles and flowers?
To prayer, to prayer, at the matins’ call,Morning foul or fair;Such prayer as from lifeless lips may fall—Words, but hardly prayer;Vainly trying the thoughts to raiseWhich in the sunshine would burst in praise.
Thou, in the glory of cloudless noon,The God revealing,Turning thy face from the boundless boon,Painfully kneeling;Or in thy chamber’s still solitude,Bending thy head o’er the legend rude.
I, in a cool and lonely nook,Gloomily, gloomily,Poring over some musty bookThoughtfully, thoughtfully;Or on the parchment margin unrolled,Painting quaint pictures in purple and gold.
Perchance in slow procession to meet,Wearily, wearily;In an antique, narrow, high-gabled street,Wearily, wearily;Thy dark eyes lifted to mine, and thenHeavily sinking to earth again.
Sunshine and air! warmness and spring!Merrily, merrily!Back to its cell each weary thing,Wearily, wearily!And the heart so withered and dry and old,Most at home in the cloister cold.
Thou on thy knees at the vespers’ call,Wearily, wearily;I looking up on the darkening wall,Wearily, wearily;The chime so sweet to the boat at sea,Listless and dead to thee and me!
Then to the lone couch at death of day,Wearily, wearily;Rising at midnight again to prayWearily, wearily;And if through the dark those eyes looked in,Sending them far as a thought of sin.
And then when thy spirit was passing away,Dreamily, dreamily;The earth-born dwelling returning to clay,Sleepily, sleepily;Over thee held the crucified Best,But no warm face to thy cold cheek pressed.
And when my spirit was passing away,Dreamily, dreamily;The gray head lying ’mong ashes graySleepily, sleepily;No hovering angel-woman aboveWaiting to clasp me in deathless love.
But now, beloved, thy hand in mine,Peacefully, peacefully;My arm around thee, my lips on thine,Lovingly, lovingly,—Oh! is not a better thing to us givenThan wearily going alone to heaven?George Macdonald.
SHE went with morning down the woodBetween the green and blue;The sunlight on the grass was good,And all the year was new.There Love came o’er the flowers to her,A goodly sight to seeFrom crownèd hair to wing-feather;“Arise and come with me.”She walked with him in ParadiseBetween the white and red,With Love’s own kiss between her eyes,Love’s crown upon her head.Why two in heaven should not be thusFor ever, who may know?Love spread his wings most glorious;“Arise,” he said, “I go.”She came and sate down silentlyBetween the gray and gray;The wet wind beat the leafless tree,And Love was gone away.The woodland breaks to flower anew,The days bring back the year;But how am I to comfort you,My dear, my dear, my dear?J. W. Mackail.
SHE went with morning down the woodBetween the green and blue;The sunlight on the grass was good,And all the year was new.There Love came o’er the flowers to her,A goodly sight to seeFrom crownèd hair to wing-feather;“Arise and come with me.”She walked with him in ParadiseBetween the white and red,With Love’s own kiss between her eyes,Love’s crown upon her head.Why two in heaven should not be thusFor ever, who may know?Love spread his wings most glorious;“Arise,” he said, “I go.”She came and sate down silentlyBetween the gray and gray;The wet wind beat the leafless tree,And Love was gone away.The woodland breaks to flower anew,The days bring back the year;But how am I to comfort you,My dear, my dear, my dear?J. W. Mackail.
SHE went with morning down the woodBetween the green and blue;The sunlight on the grass was good,And all the year was new.
There Love came o’er the flowers to her,A goodly sight to seeFrom crownèd hair to wing-feather;“Arise and come with me.”
She walked with him in ParadiseBetween the white and red,With Love’s own kiss between her eyes,Love’s crown upon her head.
Why two in heaven should not be thusFor ever, who may know?Love spread his wings most glorious;“Arise,” he said, “I go.”
She came and sate down silentlyBetween the gray and gray;The wet wind beat the leafless tree,And Love was gone away.
The woodland breaks to flower anew,The days bring back the year;But how am I to comfort you,My dear, my dear, my dear?J. W. Mackail.
MY Love is a lady fair and free,A lady fair from over the sea,And she hath eyes that pierce my breastAnd rob my spirit of peace and rest.
MY Love is a lady fair and free,A lady fair from over the sea,And she hath eyes that pierce my breastAnd rob my spirit of peace and rest.
MY Love is a lady fair and free,A lady fair from over the sea,And she hath eyes that pierce my breastAnd rob my spirit of peace and rest.
AYOUTHFUL warrior, warm and young,She takes me prisoner with her tongue;Aye! and she keeps me—on parole—Till paid the ransom of my soul.
AYOUTHFUL warrior, warm and young,She takes me prisoner with her tongue;Aye! and she keeps me—on parole—Till paid the ransom of my soul.
AYOUTHFUL warrior, warm and young,She takes me prisoner with her tongue;Aye! and she keeps me—on parole—Till paid the ransom of my soul.
ISWEAR the foeman, arm’d for warFromcap-à-pie, with many a scar,More mercy finds for prostrate foeThan she who deals me never a blow.
ISWEAR the foeman, arm’d for warFromcap-à-pie, with many a scar,More mercy finds for prostrate foeThan she who deals me never a blow.
ISWEAR the foeman, arm’d for warFromcap-à-pie, with many a scar,More mercy finds for prostrate foeThan she who deals me never a blow.
AND so ’twill be, this many a day;She comes to wound, if not to slay.But in my dreams—in honeyed sleep—’Tis I to smile, and she to weep!Eric Mackay.
AND so ’twill be, this many a day;She comes to wound, if not to slay.But in my dreams—in honeyed sleep—’Tis I to smile, and she to weep!Eric Mackay.
AND so ’twill be, this many a day;She comes to wound, if not to slay.But in my dreams—in honeyed sleep—’Tis I to smile, and she to weep!Eric Mackay.
WHEN did the change come, dearest Heart of mine,Whom Love loves so?When did Love’s moon less brightly seem to shine,While to and fro,And soft and slow,Chill winds began to move in its decline?When did the change come, thou who wast mine own?When heard the roseFirst far-off winds begin to moan,At sunset’s close,When sad Love goesAbout the autumn woods to brood alone?When did the change come in thy heart, sweetheart,—Thy heart so dear to me?In what thing did I fail to bear my part,—My part to thee,Whose deityMy soul confesses, and how fair thou art?Alas for poor changed Love! We cannot sayWhat changes Love.My love would not suffice to make your dayNow gladly move,Though kisses stroveWith answering kisses, in Love’s sweetest way.But though I know you changed, right well I knowThat should we meet,Deep in your heart some love for me would glow;Though not that heatWhich made it beatSo fast with joy two years—oneyear ago.Philip Bourke Marston.
WHEN did the change come, dearest Heart of mine,Whom Love loves so?When did Love’s moon less brightly seem to shine,While to and fro,And soft and slow,Chill winds began to move in its decline?When did the change come, thou who wast mine own?When heard the roseFirst far-off winds begin to moan,At sunset’s close,When sad Love goesAbout the autumn woods to brood alone?When did the change come in thy heart, sweetheart,—Thy heart so dear to me?In what thing did I fail to bear my part,—My part to thee,Whose deityMy soul confesses, and how fair thou art?Alas for poor changed Love! We cannot sayWhat changes Love.My love would not suffice to make your dayNow gladly move,Though kisses stroveWith answering kisses, in Love’s sweetest way.But though I know you changed, right well I knowThat should we meet,Deep in your heart some love for me would glow;Though not that heatWhich made it beatSo fast with joy two years—oneyear ago.Philip Bourke Marston.
WHEN did the change come, dearest Heart of mine,Whom Love loves so?When did Love’s moon less brightly seem to shine,While to and fro,And soft and slow,Chill winds began to move in its decline?
When did the change come, thou who wast mine own?When heard the roseFirst far-off winds begin to moan,At sunset’s close,When sad Love goesAbout the autumn woods to brood alone?
When did the change come in thy heart, sweetheart,—Thy heart so dear to me?In what thing did I fail to bear my part,—My part to thee,Whose deityMy soul confesses, and how fair thou art?
Alas for poor changed Love! We cannot sayWhat changes Love.My love would not suffice to make your dayNow gladly move,Though kisses stroveWith answering kisses, in Love’s sweetest way.
But though I know you changed, right well I knowThat should we meet,Deep in your heart some love for me would glow;Though not that heatWhich made it beatSo fast with joy two years—oneyear ago.Philip Bourke Marston.
ONCE more I walk mid summer days, as oneReturning to the place where first he metThe face that he till death may not forget;I know the scent of roses just begun,And how at evening and at morn the sunFalls on the places that remember yetWhat feet last year within their bounds were set,And what sweet things were said and dreamt and done.The sultry silence of the summer nightRecalls to me the loved voice far away;Oh, surely I shall see some early day,In places that last year with love were bright,The face of her I love, and hear the low,Sweet troubled music of the voice I know.Philip Bourke Marston.
ONCE more I walk mid summer days, as oneReturning to the place where first he metThe face that he till death may not forget;I know the scent of roses just begun,And how at evening and at morn the sunFalls on the places that remember yetWhat feet last year within their bounds were set,And what sweet things were said and dreamt and done.The sultry silence of the summer nightRecalls to me the loved voice far away;Oh, surely I shall see some early day,In places that last year with love were bright,The face of her I love, and hear the low,Sweet troubled music of the voice I know.Philip Bourke Marston.
ONCE more I walk mid summer days, as oneReturning to the place where first he metThe face that he till death may not forget;I know the scent of roses just begun,And how at evening and at morn the sunFalls on the places that remember yetWhat feet last year within their bounds were set,And what sweet things were said and dreamt and done.The sultry silence of the summer nightRecalls to me the loved voice far away;Oh, surely I shall see some early day,In places that last year with love were bright,The face of her I love, and hear the low,Sweet troubled music of the voice I know.Philip Bourke Marston.
IN that tranced hush when sound sank awed to rest,Ere from her spirit’s rose-red, rose-sweet gateCame forth to me her royal word of fate,Did she sigh “Yes,” and droop upon my breast,While round our rapture, dumb, fixed, unexpressedBy the seized senses, there did fluctuateThe plaintive surges of our mortal state,Tempering the poignant ecstasy too blest.Do I wake into a dream, or have we twain,Lured by soft wiles to some unconscious crime,Dared joys forbid to man? Oh, Light supreme,Upon our brows transfiguring glory rain,Nor let the sword of thy just angel gleamOn two who entered heaven before their time!Westland Marston.
IN that tranced hush when sound sank awed to rest,Ere from her spirit’s rose-red, rose-sweet gateCame forth to me her royal word of fate,Did she sigh “Yes,” and droop upon my breast,While round our rapture, dumb, fixed, unexpressedBy the seized senses, there did fluctuateThe plaintive surges of our mortal state,Tempering the poignant ecstasy too blest.Do I wake into a dream, or have we twain,Lured by soft wiles to some unconscious crime,Dared joys forbid to man? Oh, Light supreme,Upon our brows transfiguring glory rain,Nor let the sword of thy just angel gleamOn two who entered heaven before their time!Westland Marston.
IN that tranced hush when sound sank awed to rest,Ere from her spirit’s rose-red, rose-sweet gateCame forth to me her royal word of fate,Did she sigh “Yes,” and droop upon my breast,While round our rapture, dumb, fixed, unexpressedBy the seized senses, there did fluctuateThe plaintive surges of our mortal state,Tempering the poignant ecstasy too blest.
Do I wake into a dream, or have we twain,Lured by soft wiles to some unconscious crime,Dared joys forbid to man? Oh, Light supreme,Upon our brows transfiguring glory rain,Nor let the sword of thy just angel gleamOn two who entered heaven before their time!Westland Marston.
WHEN fair Hyperion dons his night attire,Purple and silver, and his eyes with sleepGo trembling, and the lids a-kissing keep,And up he wings the plains of heaven the higherThe starry meadows all uncurl and creepWith twinkling shoots that tremble out and leapFrom buds into a blossoming of fire.When Spring, with primrose fillet round her brows,Drifts on the dawn into the hyacinth west,And flings fresh handfuls hoarded in her nestOf tasty flowers, to Flora making vows,The snow leaps down the mountain-side, and, press’dWith weight of leaves, the earth at happiest,Rills into rivers thick from blossom-boughs.When Liris comes sometime at break of dayTo take the vervain garlands from the door,I’ve hung there fresh with dew an hour before,And chances with soft eyes to look my way,My heart brims out with love, and crowding o’er,The passion-songs and rhythms spring and pour,As storms in June, or blossom-boughs in May.Theo. Marzials.
WHEN fair Hyperion dons his night attire,Purple and silver, and his eyes with sleepGo trembling, and the lids a-kissing keep,And up he wings the plains of heaven the higherThe starry meadows all uncurl and creepWith twinkling shoots that tremble out and leapFrom buds into a blossoming of fire.When Spring, with primrose fillet round her brows,Drifts on the dawn into the hyacinth west,And flings fresh handfuls hoarded in her nestOf tasty flowers, to Flora making vows,The snow leaps down the mountain-side, and, press’dWith weight of leaves, the earth at happiest,Rills into rivers thick from blossom-boughs.When Liris comes sometime at break of dayTo take the vervain garlands from the door,I’ve hung there fresh with dew an hour before,And chances with soft eyes to look my way,My heart brims out with love, and crowding o’er,The passion-songs and rhythms spring and pour,As storms in June, or blossom-boughs in May.Theo. Marzials.
WHEN fair Hyperion dons his night attire,Purple and silver, and his eyes with sleepGo trembling, and the lids a-kissing keep,And up he wings the plains of heaven the higherThe starry meadows all uncurl and creepWith twinkling shoots that tremble out and leapFrom buds into a blossoming of fire.
When Spring, with primrose fillet round her brows,Drifts on the dawn into the hyacinth west,And flings fresh handfuls hoarded in her nestOf tasty flowers, to Flora making vows,The snow leaps down the mountain-side, and, press’dWith weight of leaves, the earth at happiest,Rills into rivers thick from blossom-boughs.
When Liris comes sometime at break of dayTo take the vervain garlands from the door,I’ve hung there fresh with dew an hour before,And chances with soft eyes to look my way,My heart brims out with love, and crowding o’er,The passion-songs and rhythms spring and pour,As storms in June, or blossom-boughs in May.Theo. Marzials.
MY lady has a casket cutIn scarlet coral, crimson-red;Like Cupid’s bow, to keep it shut,Two pouting locks are tightenèd,In cunning curvings chisellèd.Some mighty wizard it did make,So strong that nothing can undo;And if you thence would treasure take,You press your lips the clasping to;The magic word’s “I love but you!”You’ll find a row of pearls within,As pure as scarce come from the sea,And set the rose and crimson in,Twinkling with sweetest symmetry,—I trow most beautiful to see!And eke the clasp ’s so cunning wrought,That as it opens, treble clear,There comes a music, glib befraught,Like silver lutes, that to the earAs sweet love-ditties do appear.And there within, as peach and rose,And pine and plum, most savoury choice,Elixirs sweet my Lady stows,To make the saddest heart rejoice,Or passionate the poet’s voice.A rich soul-philtre, that to sipI swear must be to drain it dry,And never take away your lipTill time has toll’d your time to die,Yet dying, love eternally.Theo. Marzials.
MY lady has a casket cutIn scarlet coral, crimson-red;Like Cupid’s bow, to keep it shut,Two pouting locks are tightenèd,In cunning curvings chisellèd.Some mighty wizard it did make,So strong that nothing can undo;And if you thence would treasure take,You press your lips the clasping to;The magic word’s “I love but you!”You’ll find a row of pearls within,As pure as scarce come from the sea,And set the rose and crimson in,Twinkling with sweetest symmetry,—I trow most beautiful to see!And eke the clasp ’s so cunning wrought,That as it opens, treble clear,There comes a music, glib befraught,Like silver lutes, that to the earAs sweet love-ditties do appear.And there within, as peach and rose,And pine and plum, most savoury choice,Elixirs sweet my Lady stows,To make the saddest heart rejoice,Or passionate the poet’s voice.A rich soul-philtre, that to sipI swear must be to drain it dry,And never take away your lipTill time has toll’d your time to die,Yet dying, love eternally.Theo. Marzials.
MY lady has a casket cutIn scarlet coral, crimson-red;Like Cupid’s bow, to keep it shut,Two pouting locks are tightenèd,In cunning curvings chisellèd.
Some mighty wizard it did make,So strong that nothing can undo;And if you thence would treasure take,You press your lips the clasping to;The magic word’s “I love but you!”
You’ll find a row of pearls within,As pure as scarce come from the sea,And set the rose and crimson in,Twinkling with sweetest symmetry,—I trow most beautiful to see!
And eke the clasp ’s so cunning wrought,That as it opens, treble clear,There comes a music, glib befraught,Like silver lutes, that to the earAs sweet love-ditties do appear.
And there within, as peach and rose,And pine and plum, most savoury choice,Elixirs sweet my Lady stows,To make the saddest heart rejoice,Or passionate the poet’s voice.
A rich soul-philtre, that to sipI swear must be to drain it dry,And never take away your lipTill time has toll’d your time to die,Yet dying, love eternally.Theo. Marzials.
ALL glorious as the Rainbow’s birth,She came in Springtide’s golden hours;When Heaven went hand-in-hand with Earth,And May was crowned with buds and flowers.The mounting devil at my heartClomb faintlier, as my life did winThe charmèd heaven she wrought apart,To wake its better Angel in.With radiant mien she trode serene,And passed me smiling by!Oh! who that looked could help but love?Not I, sweet soul, not I.The dewy eyelids of the DawnNe’er oped such heaven as hers did show:It seemed her dear eyes might have shoneAs jewels in some starry brow.Her face flashed glory like a shrineOf lily-bell with sunburst bright,Where came and went love-thoughts divine,As low winds walk the leaves in light:She wore her beauty with the graceOf Summer’s star-clad sky;Oh! who that looked could help but love?Not I, sweet soul, not I.Her budding breasts like fragrant fruitOf love were ripening to be pressed:Her voice, that shook my heart’s red root,Might not have broken a Babe’s rest,—More liquid than the running brooks,More vernal than the voice of Spring,When Nightingales are in their nooks,And all the leafy thickets ring.The love she coyly hid at heartWas shyly conscious in her eye;Oh! who that looked could help but love?Not I, sweet soul, not I.Gerald Massey.
ALL glorious as the Rainbow’s birth,She came in Springtide’s golden hours;When Heaven went hand-in-hand with Earth,And May was crowned with buds and flowers.The mounting devil at my heartClomb faintlier, as my life did winThe charmèd heaven she wrought apart,To wake its better Angel in.With radiant mien she trode serene,And passed me smiling by!Oh! who that looked could help but love?Not I, sweet soul, not I.The dewy eyelids of the DawnNe’er oped such heaven as hers did show:It seemed her dear eyes might have shoneAs jewels in some starry brow.Her face flashed glory like a shrineOf lily-bell with sunburst bright,Where came and went love-thoughts divine,As low winds walk the leaves in light:She wore her beauty with the graceOf Summer’s star-clad sky;Oh! who that looked could help but love?Not I, sweet soul, not I.Her budding breasts like fragrant fruitOf love were ripening to be pressed:Her voice, that shook my heart’s red root,Might not have broken a Babe’s rest,—More liquid than the running brooks,More vernal than the voice of Spring,When Nightingales are in their nooks,And all the leafy thickets ring.The love she coyly hid at heartWas shyly conscious in her eye;Oh! who that looked could help but love?Not I, sweet soul, not I.Gerald Massey.
ALL glorious as the Rainbow’s birth,She came in Springtide’s golden hours;When Heaven went hand-in-hand with Earth,And May was crowned with buds and flowers.The mounting devil at my heartClomb faintlier, as my life did winThe charmèd heaven she wrought apart,To wake its better Angel in.With radiant mien she trode serene,And passed me smiling by!Oh! who that looked could help but love?Not I, sweet soul, not I.
The dewy eyelids of the DawnNe’er oped such heaven as hers did show:It seemed her dear eyes might have shoneAs jewels in some starry brow.Her face flashed glory like a shrineOf lily-bell with sunburst bright,Where came and went love-thoughts divine,As low winds walk the leaves in light:She wore her beauty with the graceOf Summer’s star-clad sky;Oh! who that looked could help but love?Not I, sweet soul, not I.
Her budding breasts like fragrant fruitOf love were ripening to be pressed:Her voice, that shook my heart’s red root,Might not have broken a Babe’s rest,—More liquid than the running brooks,More vernal than the voice of Spring,When Nightingales are in their nooks,And all the leafy thickets ring.The love she coyly hid at heartWas shyly conscious in her eye;Oh! who that looked could help but love?Not I, sweet soul, not I.Gerald Massey.
AT dinner she is hostess, I am host.Went the feast ever cheerfuller? She keepsThe topic over intellectual deepsIn buoyancy afloat. They see no ghost.With sparkling surface-eyes we ply the ball.It is in truth a most contagious game:Hiding the skeletonshall be its name.Such play as this the devils might appall!But here’s the greater wonder; in that we,Enamoured of our acting and our wits,Admire each other like true hypocrites.Warm lighted glances, Love’s Ephemeræ,Shoot gaily o’er the dishes and the wine.We waken envy of our happy lot.Fast, sweet, and golden, shows our marriage-knot.Dear guests, you now have seen Love’s corpse-light shine!George Meredith.
AT dinner she is hostess, I am host.Went the feast ever cheerfuller? She keepsThe topic over intellectual deepsIn buoyancy afloat. They see no ghost.With sparkling surface-eyes we ply the ball.It is in truth a most contagious game:Hiding the skeletonshall be its name.Such play as this the devils might appall!But here’s the greater wonder; in that we,Enamoured of our acting and our wits,Admire each other like true hypocrites.Warm lighted glances, Love’s Ephemeræ,Shoot gaily o’er the dishes and the wine.We waken envy of our happy lot.Fast, sweet, and golden, shows our marriage-knot.Dear guests, you now have seen Love’s corpse-light shine!George Meredith.
AT dinner she is hostess, I am host.Went the feast ever cheerfuller? She keepsThe topic over intellectual deepsIn buoyancy afloat. They see no ghost.With sparkling surface-eyes we ply the ball.It is in truth a most contagious game:Hiding the skeletonshall be its name.Such play as this the devils might appall!But here’s the greater wonder; in that we,Enamoured of our acting and our wits,Admire each other like true hypocrites.Warm lighted glances, Love’s Ephemeræ,Shoot gaily o’er the dishes and the wine.We waken envy of our happy lot.Fast, sweet, and golden, shows our marriage-knot.Dear guests, you now have seen Love’s corpse-light shine!George Meredith.
LOVE within the lover’s breastBurns like Hesper in the West,O’er the ashes of the sun,Till the day and night are done;Then, when dawn drives up his car—Lo! it is the morning star.Love! thy love pours down on mine,As the sunlight on the vine,As the snow rill on the vale,As the salt breeze on the sail;As the song unto the birdOn my lips thy name is heard.As a dewdrop on the roseIn thy heart my passion glows;As a skylark to the sky,Up into thy breast I fly;As a sea-shell of the seaEver shall I sing of thee.George Meredith.
LOVE within the lover’s breastBurns like Hesper in the West,O’er the ashes of the sun,Till the day and night are done;Then, when dawn drives up his car—Lo! it is the morning star.Love! thy love pours down on mine,As the sunlight on the vine,As the snow rill on the vale,As the salt breeze on the sail;As the song unto the birdOn my lips thy name is heard.As a dewdrop on the roseIn thy heart my passion glows;As a skylark to the sky,Up into thy breast I fly;As a sea-shell of the seaEver shall I sing of thee.George Meredith.
LOVE within the lover’s breastBurns like Hesper in the West,O’er the ashes of the sun,Till the day and night are done;Then, when dawn drives up his car—Lo! it is the morning star.
Love! thy love pours down on mine,As the sunlight on the vine,As the snow rill on the vale,As the salt breeze on the sail;As the song unto the birdOn my lips thy name is heard.
As a dewdrop on the roseIn thy heart my passion glows;As a skylark to the sky,Up into thy breast I fly;As a sea-shell of the seaEver shall I sing of thee.George Meredith.
PLAY me a march low-toned and slow,—a march for a silent tread,Fit for the wandering feet of one who dreams of the silent dead,Lonely, between the bones below and the souls that are overhead.Here for a while they smiled and sang, alive in the interspace,Here with the grass beneath the foot, and the stars above the face,Now are their feet beneath the grass, and whither has flown their grace?Who shall assure us whence they come or tell us the way they go?Verily, life with them was joy, and now they have left us, woe.Once they were not, and now they are not, and this is the sum we know.Orderly range the seasons due, and orderly roll the stars.How shall we deem the soldier brave who frets of his wounds and scars?Are we as senseless brutes that we should dash at the well-seen bars?No, we are here with feet unfixed, but ever as if with leadDrawn from the orbs which shine above to the orb on which we tread,Down to the dust from which we came and with which we shall mingle dead.No, we are here to wait and work, and strain our banished eyes,Weary and sick of soil and toil, and hungry and fain for skiesFar from the reach of wingless men and not to be scaled with cries.Why do we mourn the days that go,—for the same sun shines each day,Ever a spring her primrose hath, and ever a May her may,—Sweet as the rose that died last year, is the rose that is born to-day.Do we not too return, we men, as ever the round earth whirls?Never a head is dimmed with gray but another is sunned with curls.She was a girl and he was a boy, but yet there are boys and girls.Ah, but alas for the smile of smiles that never but one face wore!Ah, for the voice that has flown away like a bird to an unseen shore!Ah, for the face—the flower of flowers—that blossoms on earth no more!Cosmo Monkhouse.
PLAY me a march low-toned and slow,—a march for a silent tread,Fit for the wandering feet of one who dreams of the silent dead,Lonely, between the bones below and the souls that are overhead.Here for a while they smiled and sang, alive in the interspace,Here with the grass beneath the foot, and the stars above the face,Now are their feet beneath the grass, and whither has flown their grace?Who shall assure us whence they come or tell us the way they go?Verily, life with them was joy, and now they have left us, woe.Once they were not, and now they are not, and this is the sum we know.Orderly range the seasons due, and orderly roll the stars.How shall we deem the soldier brave who frets of his wounds and scars?Are we as senseless brutes that we should dash at the well-seen bars?No, we are here with feet unfixed, but ever as if with leadDrawn from the orbs which shine above to the orb on which we tread,Down to the dust from which we came and with which we shall mingle dead.No, we are here to wait and work, and strain our banished eyes,Weary and sick of soil and toil, and hungry and fain for skiesFar from the reach of wingless men and not to be scaled with cries.Why do we mourn the days that go,—for the same sun shines each day,Ever a spring her primrose hath, and ever a May her may,—Sweet as the rose that died last year, is the rose that is born to-day.Do we not too return, we men, as ever the round earth whirls?Never a head is dimmed with gray but another is sunned with curls.She was a girl and he was a boy, but yet there are boys and girls.Ah, but alas for the smile of smiles that never but one face wore!Ah, for the voice that has flown away like a bird to an unseen shore!Ah, for the face—the flower of flowers—that blossoms on earth no more!Cosmo Monkhouse.
PLAY me a march low-toned and slow,—a march for a silent tread,Fit for the wandering feet of one who dreams of the silent dead,Lonely, between the bones below and the souls that are overhead.
Here for a while they smiled and sang, alive in the interspace,Here with the grass beneath the foot, and the stars above the face,Now are their feet beneath the grass, and whither has flown their grace?
Who shall assure us whence they come or tell us the way they go?Verily, life with them was joy, and now they have left us, woe.Once they were not, and now they are not, and this is the sum we know.
Orderly range the seasons due, and orderly roll the stars.How shall we deem the soldier brave who frets of his wounds and scars?Are we as senseless brutes that we should dash at the well-seen bars?
No, we are here with feet unfixed, but ever as if with leadDrawn from the orbs which shine above to the orb on which we tread,Down to the dust from which we came and with which we shall mingle dead.
No, we are here to wait and work, and strain our banished eyes,Weary and sick of soil and toil, and hungry and fain for skiesFar from the reach of wingless men and not to be scaled with cries.
Why do we mourn the days that go,—for the same sun shines each day,Ever a spring her primrose hath, and ever a May her may,—Sweet as the rose that died last year, is the rose that is born to-day.
Do we not too return, we men, as ever the round earth whirls?Never a head is dimmed with gray but another is sunned with curls.She was a girl and he was a boy, but yet there are boys and girls.
Ah, but alas for the smile of smiles that never but one face wore!Ah, for the voice that has flown away like a bird to an unseen shore!Ah, for the face—the flower of flowers—that blossoms on earth no more!Cosmo Monkhouse.
FAIR star that on the shoulder of yon hillPeepest, a little eye of tranquil night,Come forth. Nor sun nor moon there is to killThy ray with broader light.Shine, star of eve that art so bright and clear;Shine, little star, and bring my lover here.My lover! oh, fair word for maid to hear!My lover who was yesterday my friend!Oh, strange we did not know before how nearOur stream of life smoothed to its fated end!Shine, star of eve, as Love’s self bright and clear;Shine, little star, and bring my lover here.He comes! I hear the echo of his feet.He comes! I fear to stay, I cannot go.O Love, that thou art shame-fast, bitter-sweet;Mingled with pain, and conversant with woe!Shine, star of eve, more bright as night draws near;Shine, little star, and bring my lover here.Lewis Morris.
FAIR star that on the shoulder of yon hillPeepest, a little eye of tranquil night,Come forth. Nor sun nor moon there is to killThy ray with broader light.Shine, star of eve that art so bright and clear;Shine, little star, and bring my lover here.My lover! oh, fair word for maid to hear!My lover who was yesterday my friend!Oh, strange we did not know before how nearOur stream of life smoothed to its fated end!Shine, star of eve, as Love’s self bright and clear;Shine, little star, and bring my lover here.He comes! I hear the echo of his feet.He comes! I fear to stay, I cannot go.O Love, that thou art shame-fast, bitter-sweet;Mingled with pain, and conversant with woe!Shine, star of eve, more bright as night draws near;Shine, little star, and bring my lover here.Lewis Morris.
FAIR star that on the shoulder of yon hillPeepest, a little eye of tranquil night,Come forth. Nor sun nor moon there is to killThy ray with broader light.Shine, star of eve that art so bright and clear;Shine, little star, and bring my lover here.
My lover! oh, fair word for maid to hear!My lover who was yesterday my friend!Oh, strange we did not know before how nearOur stream of life smoothed to its fated end!Shine, star of eve, as Love’s self bright and clear;Shine, little star, and bring my lover here.
He comes! I hear the echo of his feet.He comes! I fear to stay, I cannot go.O Love, that thou art shame-fast, bitter-sweet;Mingled with pain, and conversant with woe!Shine, star of eve, more bright as night draws near;Shine, little star, and bring my lover here.Lewis Morris.
THY shadow, O tardy night,Creeps onward by valley and hill,And scarce to my streaming sightShow the white road-reaches still.O night, stay now a little, little space,And let me see the light of my beloved’s face!My love is late, O night,And what has kept him away?For I know that he takes not delightIn the garish joys of day.Haste, night, dear night, that bring’st my love to me!What if his footsteps halt and tarry but for thee!Nay, what if his footsteps slideBy the swaying bridge of pine,And whirled seaward by the tideIs the loved form I counted mine!O night, dear night, that comest yet dost not come,How shall I wait the hour that brings my darling home?Lewis Morris.
THY shadow, O tardy night,Creeps onward by valley and hill,And scarce to my streaming sightShow the white road-reaches still.O night, stay now a little, little space,And let me see the light of my beloved’s face!My love is late, O night,And what has kept him away?For I know that he takes not delightIn the garish joys of day.Haste, night, dear night, that bring’st my love to me!What if his footsteps halt and tarry but for thee!Nay, what if his footsteps slideBy the swaying bridge of pine,And whirled seaward by the tideIs the loved form I counted mine!O night, dear night, that comest yet dost not come,How shall I wait the hour that brings my darling home?Lewis Morris.
THY shadow, O tardy night,Creeps onward by valley and hill,And scarce to my streaming sightShow the white road-reaches still.O night, stay now a little, little space,And let me see the light of my beloved’s face!
My love is late, O night,And what has kept him away?For I know that he takes not delightIn the garish joys of day.Haste, night, dear night, that bring’st my love to me!What if his footsteps halt and tarry but for thee!
Nay, what if his footsteps slideBy the swaying bridge of pine,And whirled seaward by the tideIs the loved form I counted mine!O night, dear night, that comest yet dost not come,How shall I wait the hour that brings my darling home?Lewis Morris.
LOVE is enough: though the World be a waningAnd the woods have no voice but the voice of complaining,Though the sky be too dark for dim eyes to discoverThe gold-cups and daisies fair blooming thereunder,Though the hills be held shadows, and the sea a dark wonder,And this day draw a veil over all deeds passed over,Yet their hands shall not tremble, their feet shall not falter;The void shall not weary, the fear shall not alterThese lips and these eyes of the loved and the lover.William Morris.
LOVE is enough: though the World be a waningAnd the woods have no voice but the voice of complaining,Though the sky be too dark for dim eyes to discoverThe gold-cups and daisies fair blooming thereunder,Though the hills be held shadows, and the sea a dark wonder,And this day draw a veil over all deeds passed over,Yet their hands shall not tremble, their feet shall not falter;The void shall not weary, the fear shall not alterThese lips and these eyes of the loved and the lover.William Morris.
LOVE is enough: though the World be a waningAnd the woods have no voice but the voice of complaining,Though the sky be too dark for dim eyes to discoverThe gold-cups and daisies fair blooming thereunder,Though the hills be held shadows, and the sea a dark wonder,And this day draw a veil over all deeds passed over,Yet their hands shall not tremble, their feet shall not falter;The void shall not weary, the fear shall not alterThese lips and these eyes of the loved and the lover.William Morris.
LOVE is enough: ho, ye who seek saving,Go no further; come hither; there have been who have found it,And these know the House of Fulfilment of Craving;These know the Cup with the roses around it;These know the World’s wound and the balm that hath bound it:Cry out, the World heedeth not, “Love, lead us home!”He leadeth, he hearkeneth, he cometh to you-ward;Set your faces as steel to the fears that assembleRound his goad for the faint, and his scourge for the froward:Lo, his lips, how with tales of last kisses they tremble!Lo, his eyes of all sorrow that may not dissemble!Cry out, for he heedeth, “O Love, lead us home.”Oh, hearken the words of his voice of compassion:“Come cling round about me, ye faithful who sickenOf the weary unrest and the world’s passing fashion!As the rain in mid-morning your troubles shall thicken,But surely within you some Godhead doth quicken,As ye cry to me heeding, and leading you home.“Come—pain ye shall have, and be blind to the ending!Come—fear ye shall have, mid the sky’s over-casting!Come—change ye shall have, for far are ye wending!Come—no crown ye shall have for your thirst and your fastingBut the kissed lips of Love and fair life ever-lasting!Cry out, for one heedeth who leadeth you home!”Is he gone? was he with us? ho, ye who seek saving,Go no further; come hither; for have we not found it?Here is the House of Fulfilment of Craving,Here is the Cup with the roses around it;The World’s wound well healed, and the balm that hath bound it:Cry out! for he heedeth, fair Love that led home.William Morris.
LOVE is enough: ho, ye who seek saving,Go no further; come hither; there have been who have found it,And these know the House of Fulfilment of Craving;These know the Cup with the roses around it;These know the World’s wound and the balm that hath bound it:Cry out, the World heedeth not, “Love, lead us home!”He leadeth, he hearkeneth, he cometh to you-ward;Set your faces as steel to the fears that assembleRound his goad for the faint, and his scourge for the froward:Lo, his lips, how with tales of last kisses they tremble!Lo, his eyes of all sorrow that may not dissemble!Cry out, for he heedeth, “O Love, lead us home.”Oh, hearken the words of his voice of compassion:“Come cling round about me, ye faithful who sickenOf the weary unrest and the world’s passing fashion!As the rain in mid-morning your troubles shall thicken,But surely within you some Godhead doth quicken,As ye cry to me heeding, and leading you home.“Come—pain ye shall have, and be blind to the ending!Come—fear ye shall have, mid the sky’s over-casting!Come—change ye shall have, for far are ye wending!Come—no crown ye shall have for your thirst and your fastingBut the kissed lips of Love and fair life ever-lasting!Cry out, for one heedeth who leadeth you home!”Is he gone? was he with us? ho, ye who seek saving,Go no further; come hither; for have we not found it?Here is the House of Fulfilment of Craving,Here is the Cup with the roses around it;The World’s wound well healed, and the balm that hath bound it:Cry out! for he heedeth, fair Love that led home.William Morris.
LOVE is enough: ho, ye who seek saving,Go no further; come hither; there have been who have found it,And these know the House of Fulfilment of Craving;These know the Cup with the roses around it;These know the World’s wound and the balm that hath bound it:Cry out, the World heedeth not, “Love, lead us home!”
He leadeth, he hearkeneth, he cometh to you-ward;Set your faces as steel to the fears that assembleRound his goad for the faint, and his scourge for the froward:Lo, his lips, how with tales of last kisses they tremble!Lo, his eyes of all sorrow that may not dissemble!Cry out, for he heedeth, “O Love, lead us home.”
Oh, hearken the words of his voice of compassion:“Come cling round about me, ye faithful who sickenOf the weary unrest and the world’s passing fashion!As the rain in mid-morning your troubles shall thicken,But surely within you some Godhead doth quicken,As ye cry to me heeding, and leading you home.
“Come—pain ye shall have, and be blind to the ending!Come—fear ye shall have, mid the sky’s over-casting!Come—change ye shall have, for far are ye wending!Come—no crown ye shall have for your thirst and your fastingBut the kissed lips of Love and fair life ever-lasting!Cry out, for one heedeth who leadeth you home!”
Is he gone? was he with us? ho, ye who seek saving,Go no further; come hither; for have we not found it?Here is the House of Fulfilment of Craving,Here is the Cup with the roses around it;The World’s wound well healed, and the balm that hath bound it:Cry out! for he heedeth, fair Love that led home.William Morris.
IHAD never kissed her her whole life long,—Now I stand by her bier, does she feelHow with love that the waiting years made strong,I set on her lips my seal?Will she wear my kiss in the grave’s long night,And wake sometimes with a thrill,From dreams of the old life’s missed delight,To feel that the grave is chill?“It was warm,” will she say, “in that world above;It was warm, but I did not knowHow he loved me there, with his whole life’s love,—It is cold down here below.”Louise Chandler Moulton.
IHAD never kissed her her whole life long,—Now I stand by her bier, does she feelHow with love that the waiting years made strong,I set on her lips my seal?Will she wear my kiss in the grave’s long night,And wake sometimes with a thrill,From dreams of the old life’s missed delight,To feel that the grave is chill?“It was warm,” will she say, “in that world above;It was warm, but I did not knowHow he loved me there, with his whole life’s love,—It is cold down here below.”Louise Chandler Moulton.
IHAD never kissed her her whole life long,—Now I stand by her bier, does she feelHow with love that the waiting years made strong,I set on her lips my seal?
Will she wear my kiss in the grave’s long night,And wake sometimes with a thrill,From dreams of the old life’s missed delight,To feel that the grave is chill?
“It was warm,” will she say, “in that world above;It was warm, but I did not knowHow he loved me there, with his whole life’s love,—It is cold down here below.”
Louise Chandler Moulton.
IN after years a twilight ghost shall fillWith shadowy presence all thy waiting room:From lips of air thou canst not kiss the bloom;Yet at old kisses will thy pulses thrill,And the old longing that thou couldst not kill,Feeling her presence in the gathering gloom,Will mock thee with the hopelessness of doom,While she stands there and smiles, serene and still.Thou canst not vex her, then, with passion’s pain:Call, and the silence will thy call repeat;But she will smile there, with cold lips and sweet,Forgetful of old tortures, and the chainThat once she wore, the tears she wept in vain,At passing from her threshold of thy feet.Louise Chandler Moulton.
IN after years a twilight ghost shall fillWith shadowy presence all thy waiting room:From lips of air thou canst not kiss the bloom;Yet at old kisses will thy pulses thrill,And the old longing that thou couldst not kill,Feeling her presence in the gathering gloom,Will mock thee with the hopelessness of doom,While she stands there and smiles, serene and still.Thou canst not vex her, then, with passion’s pain:Call, and the silence will thy call repeat;But she will smile there, with cold lips and sweet,Forgetful of old tortures, and the chainThat once she wore, the tears she wept in vain,At passing from her threshold of thy feet.Louise Chandler Moulton.
IN after years a twilight ghost shall fillWith shadowy presence all thy waiting room:From lips of air thou canst not kiss the bloom;Yet at old kisses will thy pulses thrill,And the old longing that thou couldst not kill,Feeling her presence in the gathering gloom,Will mock thee with the hopelessness of doom,While she stands there and smiles, serene and still.
Thou canst not vex her, then, with passion’s pain:Call, and the silence will thy call repeat;But she will smile there, with cold lips and sweet,Forgetful of old tortures, and the chainThat once she wore, the tears she wept in vain,At passing from her threshold of thy feet.Louise Chandler Moulton.
COMRADES! in vain ye seek to learnFor whom I burn;Not for a kingdom would I dareHer name declare.But we will chant in chorus still,—If so you will,—That she I love is blonde and sweet,As blades of wheat.Whate’er her wayward fancies askBecomes my task;Should she my very life demand,’Tis in her hand.The pain of passion unrevealedCan scarce be healed:Such pain within my heart I bear,To my despair:Nathless I love her all too wellHer name to tell;And I would sooner die than e’erHer name declare.George Murray.
COMRADES! in vain ye seek to learnFor whom I burn;Not for a kingdom would I dareHer name declare.But we will chant in chorus still,—If so you will,—That she I love is blonde and sweet,As blades of wheat.Whate’er her wayward fancies askBecomes my task;Should she my very life demand,’Tis in her hand.The pain of passion unrevealedCan scarce be healed:Such pain within my heart I bear,To my despair:Nathless I love her all too wellHer name to tell;And I would sooner die than e’erHer name declare.George Murray.
COMRADES! in vain ye seek to learnFor whom I burn;Not for a kingdom would I dareHer name declare.
But we will chant in chorus still,—If so you will,—That she I love is blonde and sweet,As blades of wheat.
Whate’er her wayward fancies askBecomes my task;Should she my very life demand,’Tis in her hand.
The pain of passion unrevealedCan scarce be healed:Such pain within my heart I bear,To my despair:
Nathless I love her all too wellHer name to tell;And I would sooner die than e’erHer name declare.George Murray.
WHEN God some day shall call my nameAnd scorch me with a blaze of shame,Bringing to light my inmost thoughtAnd all the evil I have wrought,Tearing away the veils I woveTo hide my foulness from my love,And leaving my transgressions bareTo the whole heaven’s clear, cold air—When all the angels weep to seeThe branded outcast soul of me,One saint at least will hide her face,—She will not look at my disgrace.“At least, O God, O God Most High,He loved me truly!” she will cry,And God will pause before He sendMy soul to find its fitting end.Then, lest heaven’s light should leave her faceTo think one loved her and was base,I will speak out at judgment day,—“I never loved her!” I will say.E. Nesbit.
WHEN God some day shall call my nameAnd scorch me with a blaze of shame,Bringing to light my inmost thoughtAnd all the evil I have wrought,Tearing away the veils I woveTo hide my foulness from my love,And leaving my transgressions bareTo the whole heaven’s clear, cold air—When all the angels weep to seeThe branded outcast soul of me,One saint at least will hide her face,—She will not look at my disgrace.“At least, O God, O God Most High,He loved me truly!” she will cry,And God will pause before He sendMy soul to find its fitting end.Then, lest heaven’s light should leave her faceTo think one loved her and was base,I will speak out at judgment day,—“I never loved her!” I will say.E. Nesbit.
WHEN God some day shall call my nameAnd scorch me with a blaze of shame,Bringing to light my inmost thoughtAnd all the evil I have wrought,
Tearing away the veils I woveTo hide my foulness from my love,And leaving my transgressions bareTo the whole heaven’s clear, cold air—
When all the angels weep to seeThe branded outcast soul of me,One saint at least will hide her face,—She will not look at my disgrace.
“At least, O God, O God Most High,He loved me truly!” she will cry,And God will pause before He sendMy soul to find its fitting end.
Then, lest heaven’s light should leave her faceTo think one loved her and was base,I will speak out at judgment day,—“I never loved her!” I will say.E. Nesbit.
THE snow is white on wood and wold,The wind is in the firs,So dead my heart is with the cold,No pulse within it stirs,Even to see your face, my dear,Your face that was my sun;There is no spring this bitter year,And summer’s dreams are done.The snakes that lie about my heartAre in their wintry sleep;Their fangs no more deal sting and smart,No more they curl and creep.Love with the summer ceased to be;The frost is firm and fast.God keep the summer far from me,And let the snakes’ sleep last!Touch of your hand could not sufficeTo waken them once more;Nor could the sunshine of your eyesA ruined spring restore.But ah—your lips! You know the rest:The snows are summer rain,My eyes are wet, and in my breastThe snakes’ fangs meet again.E. Nesbit.
THE snow is white on wood and wold,The wind is in the firs,So dead my heart is with the cold,No pulse within it stirs,Even to see your face, my dear,Your face that was my sun;There is no spring this bitter year,And summer’s dreams are done.The snakes that lie about my heartAre in their wintry sleep;Their fangs no more deal sting and smart,No more they curl and creep.Love with the summer ceased to be;The frost is firm and fast.God keep the summer far from me,And let the snakes’ sleep last!Touch of your hand could not sufficeTo waken them once more;Nor could the sunshine of your eyesA ruined spring restore.But ah—your lips! You know the rest:The snows are summer rain,My eyes are wet, and in my breastThe snakes’ fangs meet again.E. Nesbit.
THE snow is white on wood and wold,The wind is in the firs,So dead my heart is with the cold,No pulse within it stirs,Even to see your face, my dear,Your face that was my sun;There is no spring this bitter year,And summer’s dreams are done.
The snakes that lie about my heartAre in their wintry sleep;Their fangs no more deal sting and smart,No more they curl and creep.Love with the summer ceased to be;The frost is firm and fast.God keep the summer far from me,And let the snakes’ sleep last!
Touch of your hand could not sufficeTo waken them once more;Nor could the sunshine of your eyesA ruined spring restore.But ah—your lips! You know the rest:The snows are summer rain,My eyes are wet, and in my breastThe snakes’ fangs meet again.E. Nesbit.
THE wheel goes round, the wheel goes roundWith drip and whir and plash,It keeps all green the grassy ground,The alder, beech, and ash.The ferns creep out mid mosses cool,Forget-me-nots are foundBlue in the shadow by the pool—And still the wheel goes round.Round goes the wheel, round goes the wheel,The foam is white like cream,The merry waters dance and reelAlong the stony stream.The little garden of the mill,It is enchanted ground,I smell its stocks and wall-flowers still,And still the wheel goes round.The wheel goes round, the wheel goes round,And life’s wheel too must go,—But all their clamour has not drownedA voice I used to know.Her window’s blank. The garden’s bareAs her chill new-made mound,But still my heart’s delight is there,And still the wheel goes round.E. Nesbit.
THE wheel goes round, the wheel goes roundWith drip and whir and plash,It keeps all green the grassy ground,The alder, beech, and ash.The ferns creep out mid mosses cool,Forget-me-nots are foundBlue in the shadow by the pool—And still the wheel goes round.Round goes the wheel, round goes the wheel,The foam is white like cream,The merry waters dance and reelAlong the stony stream.The little garden of the mill,It is enchanted ground,I smell its stocks and wall-flowers still,And still the wheel goes round.The wheel goes round, the wheel goes round,And life’s wheel too must go,—But all their clamour has not drownedA voice I used to know.Her window’s blank. The garden’s bareAs her chill new-made mound,But still my heart’s delight is there,And still the wheel goes round.E. Nesbit.
THE wheel goes round, the wheel goes roundWith drip and whir and plash,It keeps all green the grassy ground,The alder, beech, and ash.The ferns creep out mid mosses cool,Forget-me-nots are foundBlue in the shadow by the pool—And still the wheel goes round.
Round goes the wheel, round goes the wheel,The foam is white like cream,The merry waters dance and reelAlong the stony stream.The little garden of the mill,It is enchanted ground,I smell its stocks and wall-flowers still,And still the wheel goes round.
The wheel goes round, the wheel goes round,And life’s wheel too must go,—But all their clamour has not drownedA voice I used to know.Her window’s blank. The garden’s bareAs her chill new-made mound,But still my heart’s delight is there,And still the wheel goes round.E. Nesbit.