HOW many lips have uttered one sweet word—Ever the sweetest word in any tongue!How many listening hearts have wildly stirred,While burning blushes to the soft cheeks sprung,And dear eyes, deepening with a light divine,Were lifted up, as thine are now to mine!How oft the night, with silence and perfume,Has hushed the world that heart might speak to heart,And make in each dim haunt of leafy gloomA trysting-place where love might meet and part,And kisses fall unseen on lips and brow,As on thine, sweet! my kisses linger now!Charles Lotin Hildreth.
HOW many lips have uttered one sweet word—Ever the sweetest word in any tongue!How many listening hearts have wildly stirred,While burning blushes to the soft cheeks sprung,And dear eyes, deepening with a light divine,Were lifted up, as thine are now to mine!How oft the night, with silence and perfume,Has hushed the world that heart might speak to heart,And make in each dim haunt of leafy gloomA trysting-place where love might meet and part,And kisses fall unseen on lips and brow,As on thine, sweet! my kisses linger now!Charles Lotin Hildreth.
HOW many lips have uttered one sweet word—Ever the sweetest word in any tongue!How many listening hearts have wildly stirred,While burning blushes to the soft cheeks sprung,And dear eyes, deepening with a light divine,Were lifted up, as thine are now to mine!
How oft the night, with silence and perfume,Has hushed the world that heart might speak to heart,And make in each dim haunt of leafy gloomA trysting-place where love might meet and part,And kisses fall unseen on lips and brow,As on thine, sweet! my kisses linger now!Charles Lotin Hildreth.
SWEET as the change from pleasant thoughts to sleepThe silver gloaming melted into gloom,Then came the evening silence rich and deep,With mingled breaths of dew-released perfume;The few first stars shone in the azure pale,Soft as a young nun’s glances through her veil.Was it for darkness that thou waited, sweet?Ah, though thy face was dusk in night’s eclipse,Thy heart betrayed thee by its quickened beat!I needed not the light to find thy lips,Nor in the balmy hush of even-time,To hear one word more sweet than any rhyme.Charles Lotin Hildreth.
SWEET as the change from pleasant thoughts to sleepThe silver gloaming melted into gloom,Then came the evening silence rich and deep,With mingled breaths of dew-released perfume;The few first stars shone in the azure pale,Soft as a young nun’s glances through her veil.Was it for darkness that thou waited, sweet?Ah, though thy face was dusk in night’s eclipse,Thy heart betrayed thee by its quickened beat!I needed not the light to find thy lips,Nor in the balmy hush of even-time,To hear one word more sweet than any rhyme.Charles Lotin Hildreth.
SWEET as the change from pleasant thoughts to sleepThe silver gloaming melted into gloom,Then came the evening silence rich and deep,With mingled breaths of dew-released perfume;The few first stars shone in the azure pale,Soft as a young nun’s glances through her veil.
Was it for darkness that thou waited, sweet?Ah, though thy face was dusk in night’s eclipse,Thy heart betrayed thee by its quickened beat!I needed not the light to find thy lips,Nor in the balmy hush of even-time,To hear one word more sweet than any rhyme.Charles Lotin Hildreth.
BY one rapt day Love doth his harvest mete,And from dream wings in memory’s light caressedFans calms of joy into my burning breast.It is that day when Love bowed at thy feet,And all the noontide in a rush of heatRippled with whispers of thy love confessed;And larks afar sank down with sobs of rest,Finding their carol heights in thee complete.The day when, midst the well-known Sussex wood,Stream music kissed the spirit of the woldAnd sang the sun to rest, mingling its goldWith heather-bell and oak, and, rapt in moodsOf melody and shy sweet interludes,Held our soul’s transport still with joys untold.A. Ernest Hinshelwood.
BY one rapt day Love doth his harvest mete,And from dream wings in memory’s light caressedFans calms of joy into my burning breast.It is that day when Love bowed at thy feet,And all the noontide in a rush of heatRippled with whispers of thy love confessed;And larks afar sank down with sobs of rest,Finding their carol heights in thee complete.The day when, midst the well-known Sussex wood,Stream music kissed the spirit of the woldAnd sang the sun to rest, mingling its goldWith heather-bell and oak, and, rapt in moodsOf melody and shy sweet interludes,Held our soul’s transport still with joys untold.A. Ernest Hinshelwood.
BY one rapt day Love doth his harvest mete,And from dream wings in memory’s light caressedFans calms of joy into my burning breast.It is that day when Love bowed at thy feet,And all the noontide in a rush of heatRippled with whispers of thy love confessed;And larks afar sank down with sobs of rest,Finding their carol heights in thee complete.
The day when, midst the well-known Sussex wood,Stream music kissed the spirit of the woldAnd sang the sun to rest, mingling its goldWith heather-bell and oak, and, rapt in moodsOf melody and shy sweet interludes,Held our soul’s transport still with joys untold.A. Ernest Hinshelwood.
NOW, by the blessed Paphian queen,Who heaves the breast of sweet sixteen;By every name I cut on barkBefore my morning star grew dark;By Hymen’s torch, by Cupid’s dart,By all that thrills the beating heart;The bright black eye, the melting blue,—I cannot choose between the two.I had a vision in my dreams;—I saw a row of twenty beams;From every beam a rope was hung,In every rope a lover swung;I asked the hue of every eyeThat bade each luckless lover die;Ten shadowy lips said heavenly blue,And ten accused the darker hue.I asked a matron which she deemedWith fairest light of beauty beamed;She answered, some thought both were fair,—Give her blue eyes and golden hair.I might have liked her judgment well,But, as she spoke, she rung the bell,And all her girls, nor small nor few,Came marching in,—their eyes were blue.I asked a maiden; back she flungThe locks that round her forehead hung,And turned her eye, a glorious one,Bright as a diamond in the sun,On me, until beneath its raysI felt as if my hair would blaze;She liked all eyes but eyes of green;She looked at me, what could she mean?Ah! many lids Love lurks between,Nor heeds the colouring of his screen;And when his random arrows fly,The victim falls, but knows not why.Gaze not upon his shield of jet,The shaft upon the string is set;Look not beneath his azure veil,Though every limb were cased in mail.Well both might make a martyr breakThe chain that bound him to the stake;And both with but a single rayCan melt our very hearts away;And both, when balanced, hardly seemTo stir the scales, or rock the beam;But that is dearest, all the while,That wears for us the sweetest smile.Oliver Wendell Holmes.
NOW, by the blessed Paphian queen,Who heaves the breast of sweet sixteen;By every name I cut on barkBefore my morning star grew dark;By Hymen’s torch, by Cupid’s dart,By all that thrills the beating heart;The bright black eye, the melting blue,—I cannot choose between the two.I had a vision in my dreams;—I saw a row of twenty beams;From every beam a rope was hung,In every rope a lover swung;I asked the hue of every eyeThat bade each luckless lover die;Ten shadowy lips said heavenly blue,And ten accused the darker hue.I asked a matron which she deemedWith fairest light of beauty beamed;She answered, some thought both were fair,—Give her blue eyes and golden hair.I might have liked her judgment well,But, as she spoke, she rung the bell,And all her girls, nor small nor few,Came marching in,—their eyes were blue.I asked a maiden; back she flungThe locks that round her forehead hung,And turned her eye, a glorious one,Bright as a diamond in the sun,On me, until beneath its raysI felt as if my hair would blaze;She liked all eyes but eyes of green;She looked at me, what could she mean?Ah! many lids Love lurks between,Nor heeds the colouring of his screen;And when his random arrows fly,The victim falls, but knows not why.Gaze not upon his shield of jet,The shaft upon the string is set;Look not beneath his azure veil,Though every limb were cased in mail.Well both might make a martyr breakThe chain that bound him to the stake;And both with but a single rayCan melt our very hearts away;And both, when balanced, hardly seemTo stir the scales, or rock the beam;But that is dearest, all the while,That wears for us the sweetest smile.Oliver Wendell Holmes.
NOW, by the blessed Paphian queen,Who heaves the breast of sweet sixteen;By every name I cut on barkBefore my morning star grew dark;By Hymen’s torch, by Cupid’s dart,By all that thrills the beating heart;The bright black eye, the melting blue,—I cannot choose between the two.
I had a vision in my dreams;—I saw a row of twenty beams;From every beam a rope was hung,In every rope a lover swung;I asked the hue of every eyeThat bade each luckless lover die;Ten shadowy lips said heavenly blue,And ten accused the darker hue.
I asked a matron which she deemedWith fairest light of beauty beamed;She answered, some thought both were fair,—Give her blue eyes and golden hair.I might have liked her judgment well,But, as she spoke, she rung the bell,And all her girls, nor small nor few,Came marching in,—their eyes were blue.
I asked a maiden; back she flungThe locks that round her forehead hung,And turned her eye, a glorious one,Bright as a diamond in the sun,On me, until beneath its raysI felt as if my hair would blaze;She liked all eyes but eyes of green;She looked at me, what could she mean?
Ah! many lids Love lurks between,Nor heeds the colouring of his screen;And when his random arrows fly,The victim falls, but knows not why.Gaze not upon his shield of jet,The shaft upon the string is set;Look not beneath his azure veil,Though every limb were cased in mail.
Well both might make a martyr breakThe chain that bound him to the stake;And both with but a single rayCan melt our very hearts away;And both, when balanced, hardly seemTo stir the scales, or rock the beam;But that is dearest, all the while,That wears for us the sweetest smile.Oliver Wendell Holmes.
BETWEEN the pansies and the ryeFlutters my purple butterfly;Between her white brow and her chin,Does Love his fairy wake begin:By poppy-cups and drifts of heather,Dances the sun and she together.But o’er the scarlet of her mouthWhence those entreated words come forth,Love hovers all the livelong day,And cannot, through its spell, away;But there, where he was born, must dieBetween the pansies and the rye.Herbert P. Horne.
BETWEEN the pansies and the ryeFlutters my purple butterfly;Between her white brow and her chin,Does Love his fairy wake begin:By poppy-cups and drifts of heather,Dances the sun and she together.But o’er the scarlet of her mouthWhence those entreated words come forth,Love hovers all the livelong day,And cannot, through its spell, away;But there, where he was born, must dieBetween the pansies and the rye.Herbert P. Horne.
BETWEEN the pansies and the ryeFlutters my purple butterfly;
Between her white brow and her chin,Does Love his fairy wake begin:
By poppy-cups and drifts of heather,Dances the sun and she together.
But o’er the scarlet of her mouthWhence those entreated words come forth,Love hovers all the livelong day,And cannot, through its spell, away;But there, where he was born, must dieBetween the pansies and the rye.Herbert P. Horne.
“Darling,” he said, “I never meantTo hurt you;” and his eyes were wet.“I would not hurt you for the world:Am I to blame if I forget?”“Forgive my selfish tears!” she cried,“Forgive! I knew that it was notBecause you meant to hurt me, sweet,—I knew it was that you forgot!”But all the same, deep in her heartRankled this thought, and rankles yet,—“When love is at its best, one lovesSo much that he cannot forget.”Helen Hunt.
“Darling,” he said, “I never meantTo hurt you;” and his eyes were wet.“I would not hurt you for the world:Am I to blame if I forget?”“Forgive my selfish tears!” she cried,“Forgive! I knew that it was notBecause you meant to hurt me, sweet,—I knew it was that you forgot!”But all the same, deep in her heartRankled this thought, and rankles yet,—“When love is at its best, one lovesSo much that he cannot forget.”Helen Hunt.
“Darling,” he said, “I never meantTo hurt you;” and his eyes were wet.“I would not hurt you for the world:Am I to blame if I forget?”
“Forgive my selfish tears!” she cried,“Forgive! I knew that it was notBecause you meant to hurt me, sweet,—I knew it was that you forgot!”
But all the same, deep in her heartRankled this thought, and rankles yet,—“When love is at its best, one lovesSo much that he cannot forget.”
Helen Hunt.
DEAR, let me dream of love,Ah! though a dream it be!I’ll ask no boon aboveA word, a smile from thee:At most, in some still hour, one kindly thought of me.Sweet, let me gaze awhileInto those radiant eyes!I’ll scheme not to beguileThe heart, that deeper liesBeneath them than yon star in night’s pellucid skies.Love, let my spirit bowIn worship at thy shrine!I’ll swear thou shalt not knowOne word from lip of mine,An instant’s pain to send through that shy soul of thine.Selwyn Image.
DEAR, let me dream of love,Ah! though a dream it be!I’ll ask no boon aboveA word, a smile from thee:At most, in some still hour, one kindly thought of me.Sweet, let me gaze awhileInto those radiant eyes!I’ll scheme not to beguileThe heart, that deeper liesBeneath them than yon star in night’s pellucid skies.Love, let my spirit bowIn worship at thy shrine!I’ll swear thou shalt not knowOne word from lip of mine,An instant’s pain to send through that shy soul of thine.Selwyn Image.
DEAR, let me dream of love,Ah! though a dream it be!I’ll ask no boon aboveA word, a smile from thee:At most, in some still hour, one kindly thought of me.
Sweet, let me gaze awhileInto those radiant eyes!I’ll scheme not to beguileThe heart, that deeper liesBeneath them than yon star in night’s pellucid skies.
Love, let my spirit bowIn worship at thy shrine!I’ll swear thou shalt not knowOne word from lip of mine,An instant’s pain to send through that shy soul of thine.Selwyn Image.
SULLENLY fell the rain while under the oak we stood;It hissed in the leaves above us, and big drops plashed to the ground,And a horror of darkness fell over river and field and wood,Where the trees were huddling together like children scared by a sound.Then suddenly rang a note from a wildbird out of the treesIn quick response to a sunbeam, and lo, o’erhead it was fair,And sweet was the smell of the meadow, and pleasant the hum of the bees,As we look’d in each other’s eyes—and the raindrops shone in your hair.Henry Jenner.
SULLENLY fell the rain while under the oak we stood;It hissed in the leaves above us, and big drops plashed to the ground,And a horror of darkness fell over river and field and wood,Where the trees were huddling together like children scared by a sound.Then suddenly rang a note from a wildbird out of the treesIn quick response to a sunbeam, and lo, o’erhead it was fair,And sweet was the smell of the meadow, and pleasant the hum of the bees,As we look’d in each other’s eyes—and the raindrops shone in your hair.Henry Jenner.
SULLENLY fell the rain while under the oak we stood;It hissed in the leaves above us, and big drops plashed to the ground,And a horror of darkness fell over river and field and wood,Where the trees were huddling together like children scared by a sound.
Then suddenly rang a note from a wildbird out of the treesIn quick response to a sunbeam, and lo, o’erhead it was fair,And sweet was the smell of the meadow, and pleasant the hum of the bees,As we look’d in each other’s eyes—and the raindrops shone in your hair.Henry Jenner.
THE world goes up and the world goes down,And the sunshine follows the rain;And yesterday’s sneer and yesterday’s frownCan never come over again,Sweet wife;No, never come over again.For woman is warm, though man be cold,And the night will hallow the day;Till the heart which at even was weary and oldCan rise in the morning gay,Sweet wife;To its work in the morning gay.Charles Kingsley.
THE world goes up and the world goes down,And the sunshine follows the rain;And yesterday’s sneer and yesterday’s frownCan never come over again,Sweet wife;No, never come over again.For woman is warm, though man be cold,And the night will hallow the day;Till the heart which at even was weary and oldCan rise in the morning gay,Sweet wife;To its work in the morning gay.Charles Kingsley.
THE world goes up and the world goes down,And the sunshine follows the rain;And yesterday’s sneer and yesterday’s frownCan never come over again,Sweet wife;No, never come over again.
For woman is warm, though man be cold,And the night will hallow the day;Till the heart which at even was weary and oldCan rise in the morning gay,Sweet wife;To its work in the morning gay.Charles Kingsley.
NO girdle hath weaver or goldsmith wroughtSo rich as the arms of my love can be;No gems with a lovelier lustre fraughtThan her eyes when they answer me liquidly.Dear lady of love, be kind to meIn days when the waters of hope abate,And doubt like a shimmer on sand shall be,In the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.Sweet mouth, that the wear of the world hath taughtNo glitter of wile or traitorie,More soft than a cloud in the sunset caught,Or the heart of a crimson peony;Oh, turn not its beauty away from me;To kiss it and cling to it early and lateShall make sweet minutes of days that flee,In the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.Rich hair, that a painter of old had soughtFor the weaving of some soft phantasy,Most fair when the streams of it run distraughtOn the firm sweet shoulders yellowly;Dear Lady, gather it close to me,Weaving a nest for the double freightOf cheeks and lips that are one and free,For the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.
NO girdle hath weaver or goldsmith wroughtSo rich as the arms of my love can be;No gems with a lovelier lustre fraughtThan her eyes when they answer me liquidly.Dear lady of love, be kind to meIn days when the waters of hope abate,And doubt like a shimmer on sand shall be,In the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.Sweet mouth, that the wear of the world hath taughtNo glitter of wile or traitorie,More soft than a cloud in the sunset caught,Or the heart of a crimson peony;Oh, turn not its beauty away from me;To kiss it and cling to it early and lateShall make sweet minutes of days that flee,In the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.Rich hair, that a painter of old had soughtFor the weaving of some soft phantasy,Most fair when the streams of it run distraughtOn the firm sweet shoulders yellowly;Dear Lady, gather it close to me,Weaving a nest for the double freightOf cheeks and lips that are one and free,For the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.
NO girdle hath weaver or goldsmith wroughtSo rich as the arms of my love can be;No gems with a lovelier lustre fraughtThan her eyes when they answer me liquidly.Dear lady of love, be kind to meIn days when the waters of hope abate,And doubt like a shimmer on sand shall be,In the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.
Sweet mouth, that the wear of the world hath taughtNo glitter of wile or traitorie,More soft than a cloud in the sunset caught,Or the heart of a crimson peony;Oh, turn not its beauty away from me;To kiss it and cling to it early and lateShall make sweet minutes of days that flee,In the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.
Rich hair, that a painter of old had soughtFor the weaving of some soft phantasy,Most fair when the streams of it run distraughtOn the firm sweet shoulders yellowly;Dear Lady, gather it close to me,Weaving a nest for the double freightOf cheeks and lips that are one and free,For the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.
SO time shall be swift till thou mate with me,For love is mightiest next to fate,And none shall be happier, Love, than we,In the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.Archibald Lampman.
SO time shall be swift till thou mate with me,For love is mightiest next to fate,And none shall be happier, Love, than we,In the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.Archibald Lampman.
SO time shall be swift till thou mate with me,For love is mightiest next to fate,And none shall be happier, Love, than we,In the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.Archibald Lampman.
WHAT days await this woman whose strange feetBreathe spells, whose presence makes men dream like wine,Tall, free and slender as the forest pine,Whose form is moulded music, through whose sweetFrank eyes I feel the very heart’s least beat,Keen, passionate, full of dreams and fire:How in the end, and to what man’s desireShall all this yield, whose lips shall these lips meet?One thing I know: if he be great and pure,This love, this fire, this beauty shall endure;Triumph and hope shall lead him by the palm:But if not this, some differing thing he be,That dream shall break in terror; he shall seeThe whirlwind ripen, where he sowed the calm.Archibald Lampman.
WHAT days await this woman whose strange feetBreathe spells, whose presence makes men dream like wine,Tall, free and slender as the forest pine,Whose form is moulded music, through whose sweetFrank eyes I feel the very heart’s least beat,Keen, passionate, full of dreams and fire:How in the end, and to what man’s desireShall all this yield, whose lips shall these lips meet?One thing I know: if he be great and pure,This love, this fire, this beauty shall endure;Triumph and hope shall lead him by the palm:But if not this, some differing thing he be,That dream shall break in terror; he shall seeThe whirlwind ripen, where he sowed the calm.Archibald Lampman.
WHAT days await this woman whose strange feetBreathe spells, whose presence makes men dream like wine,Tall, free and slender as the forest pine,Whose form is moulded music, through whose sweetFrank eyes I feel the very heart’s least beat,Keen, passionate, full of dreams and fire:How in the end, and to what man’s desireShall all this yield, whose lips shall these lips meet?
One thing I know: if he be great and pure,This love, this fire, this beauty shall endure;Triumph and hope shall lead him by the palm:But if not this, some differing thing he be,That dream shall break in terror; he shall seeThe whirlwind ripen, where he sowed the calm.Archibald Lampman.
THERE is an air for which I would disownMozart’s, Rossini’s, Weber’s melodies,—A sweet sad air that languishes and sighs,And keeps its secret charm for me alone.Whene’er I hear that music vague and old,Two hundred years are mist that rolls away;The thirteenth Louis reigns, and I beholdA green land golden in the dying day.An old red castle, strong with stony towers,The windows gay with many-coloured glass,Wide plains, and rivers flowing among flowers,That bathe the castle basement as they pass.In antique weed, with dark eyes and gold hair,A lady looks forth from her window high;It may be that I knew and found her fair,In some forgotten life, long time gone by.Andrew Lang.
THERE is an air for which I would disownMozart’s, Rossini’s, Weber’s melodies,—A sweet sad air that languishes and sighs,And keeps its secret charm for me alone.Whene’er I hear that music vague and old,Two hundred years are mist that rolls away;The thirteenth Louis reigns, and I beholdA green land golden in the dying day.An old red castle, strong with stony towers,The windows gay with many-coloured glass,Wide plains, and rivers flowing among flowers,That bathe the castle basement as they pass.In antique weed, with dark eyes and gold hair,A lady looks forth from her window high;It may be that I knew and found her fair,In some forgotten life, long time gone by.Andrew Lang.
THERE is an air for which I would disownMozart’s, Rossini’s, Weber’s melodies,—A sweet sad air that languishes and sighs,And keeps its secret charm for me alone.
Whene’er I hear that music vague and old,Two hundred years are mist that rolls away;The thirteenth Louis reigns, and I beholdA green land golden in the dying day.
An old red castle, strong with stony towers,The windows gay with many-coloured glass,Wide plains, and rivers flowing among flowers,That bathe the castle basement as they pass.
In antique weed, with dark eyes and gold hair,A lady looks forth from her window high;It may be that I knew and found her fair,In some forgotten life, long time gone by.Andrew Lang.
KISS me, and say good-bye;Good-bye, there is no word to say but this,Nor any lips left for my lips to kiss,Nor any tears to shed, when these tears dry;Kiss me, and say good-bye.Farewell, be glad, forget;There is no need to say “forget,” I know,For youth is youth, and time will have it so,And though your lips are pale, and your eyes wet,Farewell, you must forget.You shall bring home your sheaves,Many, and heavy, and with blossoms twinedOf memories that go not out of mind;Let this one sheaf be twined with poppy leavesWhen you bring home your sheaves.In garnered loves of thine,The ripe good fruit of many hearts and years,Somewhere let this lie, gray and salt with tears;It grew too near the sea wind, and the brineOf life, this love of mine.This sheaf was spoiled in spring,And over-long was green, and early sear,And never gathered gold in the late yearFrom autumn suns, and moons of harvesting,But failed in frosts of spring.Yet was it thine, my sweet,This love, though weak as young corn withered,Whereof no man may gather and make bread;Thine, though it never knew the summer heat;—Forget not quite, my sweet.Andrew Lang.
KISS me, and say good-bye;Good-bye, there is no word to say but this,Nor any lips left for my lips to kiss,Nor any tears to shed, when these tears dry;Kiss me, and say good-bye.Farewell, be glad, forget;There is no need to say “forget,” I know,For youth is youth, and time will have it so,And though your lips are pale, and your eyes wet,Farewell, you must forget.You shall bring home your sheaves,Many, and heavy, and with blossoms twinedOf memories that go not out of mind;Let this one sheaf be twined with poppy leavesWhen you bring home your sheaves.In garnered loves of thine,The ripe good fruit of many hearts and years,Somewhere let this lie, gray and salt with tears;It grew too near the sea wind, and the brineOf life, this love of mine.This sheaf was spoiled in spring,And over-long was green, and early sear,And never gathered gold in the late yearFrom autumn suns, and moons of harvesting,But failed in frosts of spring.Yet was it thine, my sweet,This love, though weak as young corn withered,Whereof no man may gather and make bread;Thine, though it never knew the summer heat;—Forget not quite, my sweet.Andrew Lang.
KISS me, and say good-bye;Good-bye, there is no word to say but this,Nor any lips left for my lips to kiss,Nor any tears to shed, when these tears dry;Kiss me, and say good-bye.
Farewell, be glad, forget;There is no need to say “forget,” I know,For youth is youth, and time will have it so,And though your lips are pale, and your eyes wet,Farewell, you must forget.
You shall bring home your sheaves,Many, and heavy, and with blossoms twinedOf memories that go not out of mind;Let this one sheaf be twined with poppy leavesWhen you bring home your sheaves.
In garnered loves of thine,The ripe good fruit of many hearts and years,Somewhere let this lie, gray and salt with tears;It grew too near the sea wind, and the brineOf life, this love of mine.
This sheaf was spoiled in spring,And over-long was green, and early sear,And never gathered gold in the late yearFrom autumn suns, and moons of harvesting,But failed in frosts of spring.
Yet was it thine, my sweet,This love, though weak as young corn withered,Whereof no man may gather and make bread;Thine, though it never knew the summer heat;—Forget not quite, my sweet.Andrew Lang.
ISHALL not see thee, nay, but I shall knowPerchance, thy gray eyes in another’s eyes,Shall guess thy curls in gracious locks that flowOn purest brows, yea, and the swift surmiseShall follow, and track, and find thee in disguiseOf all sad things, and fair, where sunsets glow,When through the scent of heather, faint and low,The weak wind whispers to the day that dies.From all sweet art, and out of all “old rhyme,”Thine eyes and lips are light and song to me;The shadows of the beauty of all time,Carven and sung are only shapes of thee;Alas, the shadowy shapes! ah, sweet, my dear,Shall life or death bring all thy being near?Andrew Lang.
ISHALL not see thee, nay, but I shall knowPerchance, thy gray eyes in another’s eyes,Shall guess thy curls in gracious locks that flowOn purest brows, yea, and the swift surmiseShall follow, and track, and find thee in disguiseOf all sad things, and fair, where sunsets glow,When through the scent of heather, faint and low,The weak wind whispers to the day that dies.From all sweet art, and out of all “old rhyme,”Thine eyes and lips are light and song to me;The shadows of the beauty of all time,Carven and sung are only shapes of thee;Alas, the shadowy shapes! ah, sweet, my dear,Shall life or death bring all thy being near?Andrew Lang.
ISHALL not see thee, nay, but I shall knowPerchance, thy gray eyes in another’s eyes,Shall guess thy curls in gracious locks that flowOn purest brows, yea, and the swift surmiseShall follow, and track, and find thee in disguiseOf all sad things, and fair, where sunsets glow,When through the scent of heather, faint and low,The weak wind whispers to the day that dies.
From all sweet art, and out of all “old rhyme,”Thine eyes and lips are light and song to me;The shadows of the beauty of all time,Carven and sung are only shapes of thee;Alas, the shadowy shapes! ah, sweet, my dear,Shall life or death bring all thy being near?Andrew Lang.
WHO is it that weeps for the last year’s flowersWhen the wood is aflame with the fires of spring,And we hear her voice in the lilac bowersAs she croons the runes of the blossoming?For the same old blooms do the new years bring,But not to our lives do the years come so,New lips must kiss and new bosoms cling.—Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago.Ah me! for a breath of those morning hoursWhen Alice and I went a-wanderingThrough the shining fields, and it still was oursTo kiss and to feel we were shuddering—Ah me! when a kiss was a holy thing.—How sweet were a smile from Maud, and oh!With Phyllis once more to be whispering.—Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago.But it cannot be that old Time devoursSuch loves as was Annie’s and mine we sing,And surely beneficent heavenly powersSave Muriel’s beauty from perishing;And if in some golden eveningTo a quaint old garden I chance to go,Shall Marion no more by the wicket sing?—Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago.In these lives of ours do the new years bringOld loves as old flowers again to blow?Or do new lips kiss and new bosoms cling?—Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago.Richard Le Gallienne.
WHO is it that weeps for the last year’s flowersWhen the wood is aflame with the fires of spring,And we hear her voice in the lilac bowersAs she croons the runes of the blossoming?For the same old blooms do the new years bring,But not to our lives do the years come so,New lips must kiss and new bosoms cling.—Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago.Ah me! for a breath of those morning hoursWhen Alice and I went a-wanderingThrough the shining fields, and it still was oursTo kiss and to feel we were shuddering—Ah me! when a kiss was a holy thing.—How sweet were a smile from Maud, and oh!With Phyllis once more to be whispering.—Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago.But it cannot be that old Time devoursSuch loves as was Annie’s and mine we sing,And surely beneficent heavenly powersSave Muriel’s beauty from perishing;And if in some golden eveningTo a quaint old garden I chance to go,Shall Marion no more by the wicket sing?—Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago.In these lives of ours do the new years bringOld loves as old flowers again to blow?Or do new lips kiss and new bosoms cling?—Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago.Richard Le Gallienne.
WHO is it that weeps for the last year’s flowersWhen the wood is aflame with the fires of spring,And we hear her voice in the lilac bowersAs she croons the runes of the blossoming?For the same old blooms do the new years bring,But not to our lives do the years come so,New lips must kiss and new bosoms cling.—Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago.
Ah me! for a breath of those morning hoursWhen Alice and I went a-wanderingThrough the shining fields, and it still was oursTo kiss and to feel we were shuddering—Ah me! when a kiss was a holy thing.—How sweet were a smile from Maud, and oh!With Phyllis once more to be whispering.—Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago.
But it cannot be that old Time devoursSuch loves as was Annie’s and mine we sing,And surely beneficent heavenly powersSave Muriel’s beauty from perishing;And if in some golden eveningTo a quaint old garden I chance to go,Shall Marion no more by the wicket sing?—Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago.
In these lives of ours do the new years bringOld loves as old flowers again to blow?Or do new lips kiss and new bosoms cling?—Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago.Richard Le Gallienne.
HOW like her! But ’tis she herselfComes up the crowded street;How little did I think, the morn,My only love to meet!Whose else that motion and that mien?Whose else that airy tread?For one strange moment I forgotMy only love was dead.Amy Levy.
HOW like her! But ’tis she herselfComes up the crowded street;How little did I think, the morn,My only love to meet!Whose else that motion and that mien?Whose else that airy tread?For one strange moment I forgotMy only love was dead.Amy Levy.
HOW like her! But ’tis she herselfComes up the crowded street;How little did I think, the morn,My only love to meet!
Whose else that motion and that mien?Whose else that airy tread?For one strange moment I forgotMy only love was dead.Amy Levy.
IDARED not lead my arm aroundHer dainty waist;I dared not seek her lips, that mineHunger’d to taste:I dared not, for such awe I found,O Love divine!I trembled as my eager handHer light touch graced;And when her fond look answer’d mine,I dared not haste,But waited, holding my demandFor farther sign.Sweet mouth, that with so sweet a soundMy dread hath chased,And to my lips the holy wine,Love’s vintage, placed!Dear heart, that ever now will boundOr rest with mine!W. J. Linton.
IDARED not lead my arm aroundHer dainty waist;I dared not seek her lips, that mineHunger’d to taste:I dared not, for such awe I found,O Love divine!I trembled as my eager handHer light touch graced;And when her fond look answer’d mine,I dared not haste,But waited, holding my demandFor farther sign.Sweet mouth, that with so sweet a soundMy dread hath chased,And to my lips the holy wine,Love’s vintage, placed!Dear heart, that ever now will boundOr rest with mine!W. J. Linton.
IDARED not lead my arm aroundHer dainty waist;I dared not seek her lips, that mineHunger’d to taste:I dared not, for such awe I found,O Love divine!
I trembled as my eager handHer light touch graced;And when her fond look answer’d mine,I dared not haste,But waited, holding my demandFor farther sign.
Sweet mouth, that with so sweet a soundMy dread hath chased,And to my lips the holy wine,Love’s vintage, placed!Dear heart, that ever now will boundOr rest with mine!W. J. Linton.
COUNTESS, I see the flying year,And feel how Time is wasting here:Ay, more, he soon his worst will do,And garner all your roses too.It pleases Time to fold his wingsAround our best and fairest things;He’ll mar your blooming cheek, as nowHe stamps his mark upon my brow.The same mute planets rise and shineTo rule your days and nights as mine:Once I was young and gay, and see—What I am now you soon will be.And yet I boast a certain charmThat shields me from your worst alarm;And bids me gaze, with front sublime,On all these ravages of Time.You boast a gift to charm the eyes,I boast a gift that Time defies:For mine will still be mine, and lastWhen all your pride of beauty’s past.My gift may long embalm the luresOf eyes—ah, sweet to me as yours!For ages hence the great and goodWill judge you as I choose they should.In days to come the peer or clown,With whom I still shall win renown,Will only know that you were fairBecause I chanced to say you were.Proud Lady! Scornful beauty mocksAt aged heads and silver locks;But think awhile before you fly,Or spurn a poet such as I.Frederick Locker.
COUNTESS, I see the flying year,And feel how Time is wasting here:Ay, more, he soon his worst will do,And garner all your roses too.It pleases Time to fold his wingsAround our best and fairest things;He’ll mar your blooming cheek, as nowHe stamps his mark upon my brow.The same mute planets rise and shineTo rule your days and nights as mine:Once I was young and gay, and see—What I am now you soon will be.And yet I boast a certain charmThat shields me from your worst alarm;And bids me gaze, with front sublime,On all these ravages of Time.You boast a gift to charm the eyes,I boast a gift that Time defies:For mine will still be mine, and lastWhen all your pride of beauty’s past.My gift may long embalm the luresOf eyes—ah, sweet to me as yours!For ages hence the great and goodWill judge you as I choose they should.In days to come the peer or clown,With whom I still shall win renown,Will only know that you were fairBecause I chanced to say you were.Proud Lady! Scornful beauty mocksAt aged heads and silver locks;But think awhile before you fly,Or spurn a poet such as I.Frederick Locker.
COUNTESS, I see the flying year,And feel how Time is wasting here:Ay, more, he soon his worst will do,And garner all your roses too.
It pleases Time to fold his wingsAround our best and fairest things;He’ll mar your blooming cheek, as nowHe stamps his mark upon my brow.
The same mute planets rise and shineTo rule your days and nights as mine:Once I was young and gay, and see—What I am now you soon will be.
And yet I boast a certain charmThat shields me from your worst alarm;And bids me gaze, with front sublime,On all these ravages of Time.
You boast a gift to charm the eyes,I boast a gift that Time defies:For mine will still be mine, and lastWhen all your pride of beauty’s past.
My gift may long embalm the luresOf eyes—ah, sweet to me as yours!For ages hence the great and goodWill judge you as I choose they should.
In days to come the peer or clown,With whom I still shall win renown,Will only know that you were fairBecause I chanced to say you were.
Proud Lady! Scornful beauty mocksAt aged heads and silver locks;But think awhile before you fly,Or spurn a poet such as I.Frederick Locker.
THE sun is bright,—the air is clear,The darting swallows soar and sing,And from the stately elms I hearThe bluebird prophesying spring.So blue yon winding river flows,It seems an outlet from the sky,Where waiting till the west-wind blows,The freighted clouds at anchor lie.All things are new,—the buds, the leaves,That gild the elm-tree’s nodding crest,And even the nest beneath the eaves;—There are no birds in last year’s nest!All things rejoice in youth and love,The fulness of their first delight!And learn from the soft heavens aboveThe melting tenderness of night.Maiden, that read’st this simple rhyme,Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay;Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime,For O, it is not always May!Enjoy the spring of Love and Youth,To some good angel leave the rest;For Time will teach thee soon the truth,There are no birds in last year’s nest.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
THE sun is bright,—the air is clear,The darting swallows soar and sing,And from the stately elms I hearThe bluebird prophesying spring.So blue yon winding river flows,It seems an outlet from the sky,Where waiting till the west-wind blows,The freighted clouds at anchor lie.All things are new,—the buds, the leaves,That gild the elm-tree’s nodding crest,And even the nest beneath the eaves;—There are no birds in last year’s nest!All things rejoice in youth and love,The fulness of their first delight!And learn from the soft heavens aboveThe melting tenderness of night.Maiden, that read’st this simple rhyme,Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay;Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime,For O, it is not always May!Enjoy the spring of Love and Youth,To some good angel leave the rest;For Time will teach thee soon the truth,There are no birds in last year’s nest.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
THE sun is bright,—the air is clear,The darting swallows soar and sing,And from the stately elms I hearThe bluebird prophesying spring.
So blue yon winding river flows,It seems an outlet from the sky,Where waiting till the west-wind blows,The freighted clouds at anchor lie.
All things are new,—the buds, the leaves,That gild the elm-tree’s nodding crest,And even the nest beneath the eaves;—There are no birds in last year’s nest!
All things rejoice in youth and love,The fulness of their first delight!And learn from the soft heavens aboveThe melting tenderness of night.
Maiden, that read’st this simple rhyme,Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay;Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime,For O, it is not always May!
Enjoy the spring of Love and Youth,To some good angel leave the rest;For Time will teach thee soon the truth,There are no birds in last year’s nest.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
WHAT hast thou done to me,Girl, with the dream in thine eyes?Brightened the sun to me,Lightened the skies;Made there be one to me,One only sun to meNot in the skies.What hast thou done to me,Girl, with the dream in thine eyes?Darkened the sun to me,Blackened the skies;Made there be none to me,Nor star nor sun to me,Only black skies.Love in a Mist.
WHAT hast thou done to me,Girl, with the dream in thine eyes?Brightened the sun to me,Lightened the skies;Made there be one to me,One only sun to meNot in the skies.What hast thou done to me,Girl, with the dream in thine eyes?Darkened the sun to me,Blackened the skies;Made there be none to me,Nor star nor sun to me,Only black skies.Love in a Mist.
WHAT hast thou done to me,Girl, with the dream in thine eyes?Brightened the sun to me,Lightened the skies;Made there be one to me,One only sun to meNot in the skies.
What hast thou done to me,Girl, with the dream in thine eyes?Darkened the sun to me,Blackened the skies;Made there be none to me,Nor star nor sun to me,Only black skies.Love in a Mist.
IF in thine eyesI saw that softer lightThat in the skiesDoth herald spring’s delight,Ah, love, how loud my heart should sing,Ev’n as the blackbird to the spring!If on thy cheekI saw that warm hue playThat doth bespeakThe dawn of a new day,Ah, love, how like the lark should riseMy soul in rapture to the skies!If from thy mouthI heard such whisper lowAs from the SouthDoth through the pine-woods blow,How should my whole soul murmur throughWith music, as the pine-woods do!Love Lies Bleeding.
IF in thine eyesI saw that softer lightThat in the skiesDoth herald spring’s delight,Ah, love, how loud my heart should sing,Ev’n as the blackbird to the spring!If on thy cheekI saw that warm hue playThat doth bespeakThe dawn of a new day,Ah, love, how like the lark should riseMy soul in rapture to the skies!If from thy mouthI heard such whisper lowAs from the SouthDoth through the pine-woods blow,How should my whole soul murmur throughWith music, as the pine-woods do!Love Lies Bleeding.
IF in thine eyesI saw that softer lightThat in the skiesDoth herald spring’s delight,Ah, love, how loud my heart should sing,Ev’n as the blackbird to the spring!
If on thy cheekI saw that warm hue playThat doth bespeakThe dawn of a new day,Ah, love, how like the lark should riseMy soul in rapture to the skies!
If from thy mouthI heard such whisper lowAs from the SouthDoth through the pine-woods blow,How should my whole soul murmur throughWith music, as the pine-woods do!Love Lies Bleeding.
THE place again—The wooded heights—the widening plain—The whispering pines—the dry-leaved oaks, too youngTo cast their dead dreams ere the new be sprung!What profits itAlone on this prone slope to sitWhere thou didst press the heath,—and see how dunThe landscape seems, lit only by the sun?Yet, ah! not vainTo visit thy fair haunts again—To trace thy footsteps by the upturned stone,And conjure back thy looks, thy words, thy tone!Like music fineThat simple seeming speech of thineHath in it soft harmonics, only heardWhen from the memory fades the uttered word.And to mine eyesUndazzled by thyself, doth riseAn image lovelier and more like to theeThan even thy bodily self which sight can see.Ah! The wind shakesThe withered leaves, and Love awakes,And to the vacant landscape cries in vain:“Ah, heaven! to have her at my side again!”Love Lies Bleeding.
THE place again—The wooded heights—the widening plain—The whispering pines—the dry-leaved oaks, too youngTo cast their dead dreams ere the new be sprung!What profits itAlone on this prone slope to sitWhere thou didst press the heath,—and see how dunThe landscape seems, lit only by the sun?Yet, ah! not vainTo visit thy fair haunts again—To trace thy footsteps by the upturned stone,And conjure back thy looks, thy words, thy tone!Like music fineThat simple seeming speech of thineHath in it soft harmonics, only heardWhen from the memory fades the uttered word.And to mine eyesUndazzled by thyself, doth riseAn image lovelier and more like to theeThan even thy bodily self which sight can see.Ah! The wind shakesThe withered leaves, and Love awakes,And to the vacant landscape cries in vain:“Ah, heaven! to have her at my side again!”Love Lies Bleeding.
THE place again—The wooded heights—the widening plain—The whispering pines—the dry-leaved oaks, too youngTo cast their dead dreams ere the new be sprung!
What profits itAlone on this prone slope to sitWhere thou didst press the heath,—and see how dunThe landscape seems, lit only by the sun?
Yet, ah! not vainTo visit thy fair haunts again—To trace thy footsteps by the upturned stone,And conjure back thy looks, thy words, thy tone!
Like music fineThat simple seeming speech of thineHath in it soft harmonics, only heardWhen from the memory fades the uttered word.
And to mine eyesUndazzled by thyself, doth riseAn image lovelier and more like to theeThan even thy bodily self which sight can see.
Ah! The wind shakesThe withered leaves, and Love awakes,And to the vacant landscape cries in vain:“Ah, heaven! to have her at my side again!”
Love Lies Bleeding.
THOU wilt come back again, but not for me,Fair little face!Thou wilt come back, but, ah! I may not seeThat day of grace.No sword is at the Eden’s gate I leave;But viewless handsHave thrust me into endless night, to grieveIn loveless lands.Thou wilt come back: thy footsteps make the spring,And birds sing round;But I, in wilderness wandering,Shall hear no sound;Save as far off the traveller athirstIn desert lands,Hears waters that he may not reach, accursedIn endless sands.Love Lies Bleeding.
THOU wilt come back again, but not for me,Fair little face!Thou wilt come back, but, ah! I may not seeThat day of grace.No sword is at the Eden’s gate I leave;But viewless handsHave thrust me into endless night, to grieveIn loveless lands.Thou wilt come back: thy footsteps make the spring,And birds sing round;But I, in wilderness wandering,Shall hear no sound;Save as far off the traveller athirstIn desert lands,Hears waters that he may not reach, accursedIn endless sands.Love Lies Bleeding.
THOU wilt come back again, but not for me,Fair little face!Thou wilt come back, but, ah! I may not seeThat day of grace.
No sword is at the Eden’s gate I leave;But viewless handsHave thrust me into endless night, to grieveIn loveless lands.
Thou wilt come back: thy footsteps make the spring,And birds sing round;But I, in wilderness wandering,Shall hear no sound;
Save as far off the traveller athirstIn desert lands,Hears waters that he may not reach, accursedIn endless sands.Love Lies Bleeding.
THE little gate was reached at last,Half hid in lilacs down the lane;She pushed it wide, and, as she past,A wistful look she backward cast,And said,—“Auf wiedersehen!”With hand on latch, a vision whiteLingered reluctant, and againHalf doubting if she did aright,Soft as the dews that fell that night,She said,—“Auf wiedersehen!”The lamp’s clear gleam flits up the stair;I linger in delicious pain;Ah, in that chamber, whose rich airTo breathe in thought I scarcely dare,Thinks she,—“Auf wiedersehen!”’Tis thirteen years; once more I pressThe turf that silences the lane;I hear the rustle of her dress,I smell the lilacs, and—ah, yes,I hear “Auf wiedersehen!”Sweet piece of bashful maiden art!The English words had seemed too fain,But these—they drew us heart to heart,Yet held us tenderly apart;She said,—“Auf wiedersehen!”
THE little gate was reached at last,Half hid in lilacs down the lane;She pushed it wide, and, as she past,A wistful look she backward cast,And said,—“Auf wiedersehen!”With hand on latch, a vision whiteLingered reluctant, and againHalf doubting if she did aright,Soft as the dews that fell that night,She said,—“Auf wiedersehen!”The lamp’s clear gleam flits up the stair;I linger in delicious pain;Ah, in that chamber, whose rich airTo breathe in thought I scarcely dare,Thinks she,—“Auf wiedersehen!”’Tis thirteen years; once more I pressThe turf that silences the lane;I hear the rustle of her dress,I smell the lilacs, and—ah, yes,I hear “Auf wiedersehen!”Sweet piece of bashful maiden art!The English words had seemed too fain,But these—they drew us heart to heart,Yet held us tenderly apart;She said,—“Auf wiedersehen!”
THE little gate was reached at last,Half hid in lilacs down the lane;She pushed it wide, and, as she past,A wistful look she backward cast,And said,—“Auf wiedersehen!”
With hand on latch, a vision whiteLingered reluctant, and againHalf doubting if she did aright,Soft as the dews that fell that night,She said,—“Auf wiedersehen!”
The lamp’s clear gleam flits up the stair;I linger in delicious pain;Ah, in that chamber, whose rich airTo breathe in thought I scarcely dare,Thinks she,—“Auf wiedersehen!”
’Tis thirteen years; once more I pressThe turf that silences the lane;I hear the rustle of her dress,I smell the lilacs, and—ah, yes,I hear “Auf wiedersehen!”
Sweet piece of bashful maiden art!The English words had seemed too fain,But these—they drew us heart to heart,Yet held us tenderly apart;She said,—“Auf wiedersehen!”
STILL thirteen years: ’tis autumn nowOn field and hill, in heart and brain;The naked trees at evening sough;The leaf to the forsaken boughSighs not,—“We meet again!”Two watched yon oriole’s pendent dome,That now is void, and dank with rain,And one,—O, hope more frail than foam!The bird to his deserted homeSings not,—“We meet again!”The loath gate swings with rusty creak;Once, parting there, we played at pain;There came a parting, when the weakAnd fading lips essayed to speakVainly,—“We meet again!”Somewhere is comfort, somewhere faith,Though thou in outer dark remain;One sweet sad voice ennobles death,And still for eighteen centuries saithSoftly,—“Ye meet again!”If earth another grave must bear,Yet heaven hath won a sweeter strain,And something whispers my despair,That, from an orient chamber there,Floats down, “We meet again!”James Russell Lowell.
STILL thirteen years: ’tis autumn nowOn field and hill, in heart and brain;The naked trees at evening sough;The leaf to the forsaken boughSighs not,—“We meet again!”Two watched yon oriole’s pendent dome,That now is void, and dank with rain,And one,—O, hope more frail than foam!The bird to his deserted homeSings not,—“We meet again!”The loath gate swings with rusty creak;Once, parting there, we played at pain;There came a parting, when the weakAnd fading lips essayed to speakVainly,—“We meet again!”Somewhere is comfort, somewhere faith,Though thou in outer dark remain;One sweet sad voice ennobles death,And still for eighteen centuries saithSoftly,—“Ye meet again!”If earth another grave must bear,Yet heaven hath won a sweeter strain,And something whispers my despair,That, from an orient chamber there,Floats down, “We meet again!”James Russell Lowell.
STILL thirteen years: ’tis autumn nowOn field and hill, in heart and brain;The naked trees at evening sough;The leaf to the forsaken boughSighs not,—“We meet again!”
Two watched yon oriole’s pendent dome,That now is void, and dank with rain,And one,—O, hope more frail than foam!The bird to his deserted homeSings not,—“We meet again!”
The loath gate swings with rusty creak;Once, parting there, we played at pain;There came a parting, when the weakAnd fading lips essayed to speakVainly,—“We meet again!”
Somewhere is comfort, somewhere faith,Though thou in outer dark remain;One sweet sad voice ennobles death,And still for eighteen centuries saithSoftly,—“Ye meet again!”
If earth another grave must bear,Yet heaven hath won a sweeter strain,And something whispers my despair,That, from an orient chamber there,Floats down, “We meet again!”
James Russell Lowell.
YES, but the years run circling fleeter,Ever they pass me—I watch, I wait—Ever I dream, and awake to meet her;She cometh never, or comes too late.Should I press on? for the day grows shorter—Ought I to linger? the far end nears;Ever ahead have I looked, and sought herOn the bright sky-line of the gathering years.Now that the shadows are eastward sloping,As I screen mine eyes from the slanting sun,Cometh a thought—It is past all hoping,Look not ahead, she is missed and gone.Here on the ridge of my upward travelEre the life-line dips to the darkening vales,Sadly I turn, and would fain unravelThe entangled maze of a search that fails.When and where have I seen and passed her?What are the words I forgot to say?Should we have met had a boat rowed faster?Should we have loved had I stayed that day?Was it her face that I saw, and started,Gliding away in a train that crossed?Was it a form that I once, faint-hearted,Followed awhile in a crowd, and lost?Was it there she lived, when the train went sweepingUnder the moon through the landscape hushed?Somebody called me, I woke from sleeping,Saw but a hamlet—and on we rushed.Listen and linger—She yet may find meIn the last faint flush of the waning light—Never a step on the path behind me;I must journey alone, to the lonely night.But is there somewhere on earth, I wonder,A fading figure, with eyes that wait,Who says, as she stands in the distance yonder,“He cometh never, or comes too late”?Sir Alfred Lyall.
YES, but the years run circling fleeter,Ever they pass me—I watch, I wait—Ever I dream, and awake to meet her;She cometh never, or comes too late.Should I press on? for the day grows shorter—Ought I to linger? the far end nears;Ever ahead have I looked, and sought herOn the bright sky-line of the gathering years.Now that the shadows are eastward sloping,As I screen mine eyes from the slanting sun,Cometh a thought—It is past all hoping,Look not ahead, she is missed and gone.Here on the ridge of my upward travelEre the life-line dips to the darkening vales,Sadly I turn, and would fain unravelThe entangled maze of a search that fails.When and where have I seen and passed her?What are the words I forgot to say?Should we have met had a boat rowed faster?Should we have loved had I stayed that day?Was it her face that I saw, and started,Gliding away in a train that crossed?Was it a form that I once, faint-hearted,Followed awhile in a crowd, and lost?Was it there she lived, when the train went sweepingUnder the moon through the landscape hushed?Somebody called me, I woke from sleeping,Saw but a hamlet—and on we rushed.Listen and linger—She yet may find meIn the last faint flush of the waning light—Never a step on the path behind me;I must journey alone, to the lonely night.But is there somewhere on earth, I wonder,A fading figure, with eyes that wait,Who says, as she stands in the distance yonder,“He cometh never, or comes too late”?Sir Alfred Lyall.
YES, but the years run circling fleeter,Ever they pass me—I watch, I wait—Ever I dream, and awake to meet her;She cometh never, or comes too late.
Should I press on? for the day grows shorter—Ought I to linger? the far end nears;Ever ahead have I looked, and sought herOn the bright sky-line of the gathering years.
Now that the shadows are eastward sloping,As I screen mine eyes from the slanting sun,Cometh a thought—It is past all hoping,Look not ahead, she is missed and gone.
Here on the ridge of my upward travelEre the life-line dips to the darkening vales,Sadly I turn, and would fain unravelThe entangled maze of a search that fails.
When and where have I seen and passed her?What are the words I forgot to say?Should we have met had a boat rowed faster?Should we have loved had I stayed that day?
Was it her face that I saw, and started,Gliding away in a train that crossed?Was it a form that I once, faint-hearted,Followed awhile in a crowd, and lost?
Was it there she lived, when the train went sweepingUnder the moon through the landscape hushed?Somebody called me, I woke from sleeping,Saw but a hamlet—and on we rushed.
Listen and linger—She yet may find meIn the last faint flush of the waning light—Never a step on the path behind me;I must journey alone, to the lonely night.
But is there somewhere on earth, I wonder,A fading figure, with eyes that wait,Who says, as she stands in the distance yonder,“He cometh never, or comes too late”?Sir Alfred Lyall.
SO you but love me, be it your own way,In your own time, no sooner than you will,No warmer than you would from day to day,But love me still!Each day that still you love me seems to meA little fairer than the day before;For, daily given, love’s least must daily beA little more.And be my most gain’d your least given, if suchYour sweet will be! I reckon not the cost,Nor count the gain, by little or by much,Or least or most.Little or much, to me the gift I craveIs all in all. There is not any measureOf more or less can gauge the need I haveOf that dear treasure.So you but love me, tho’ your love be cold,Mine it can chill not. Tho’ your love come late,Mine for its coming, by sweet dreams foretold,Will dreaming wait.Yet ah, if some fair chance, before I die,One hour of waking life might let me live,Rich with the dream’d-of dear reality’Tis yours to give!Your whole sweet self, with your sweet self’s whole love!Those eyes of fire and dew, those lips wish-haunted,Those feet whose steps like elfin music moveThro’ worlds enchanted!Your whole sweet self! The unutter’d thoughts that stirYour lonest musings with light wings unheard,And feelings that find no interpreterIn deed or word!Your whole sweet self, that till by love reveal’dEven to yourself still half unknown must be!For of the wealth in souls like yours conceal’dLove keeps the key.Ah, if your whole sweet self, by all the powerOf your sweet self’s whole love in some divineFar distant hour made wholly yours, that hourMade wholly mine,And if in that blest hour all dreams came true,All doubts dissolved, all fears were whirl’d awayIn one wild storm of tendernesses newAs time’s first day,What should we both be? Hush! I do not dareEven to hear my own heart’s whisper utter’d.Be its sole answerer the silent airThis sigh has flutter’d!Robert, Lord Lytton.
SO you but love me, be it your own way,In your own time, no sooner than you will,No warmer than you would from day to day,But love me still!Each day that still you love me seems to meA little fairer than the day before;For, daily given, love’s least must daily beA little more.And be my most gain’d your least given, if suchYour sweet will be! I reckon not the cost,Nor count the gain, by little or by much,Or least or most.Little or much, to me the gift I craveIs all in all. There is not any measureOf more or less can gauge the need I haveOf that dear treasure.So you but love me, tho’ your love be cold,Mine it can chill not. Tho’ your love come late,Mine for its coming, by sweet dreams foretold,Will dreaming wait.Yet ah, if some fair chance, before I die,One hour of waking life might let me live,Rich with the dream’d-of dear reality’Tis yours to give!Your whole sweet self, with your sweet self’s whole love!Those eyes of fire and dew, those lips wish-haunted,Those feet whose steps like elfin music moveThro’ worlds enchanted!Your whole sweet self! The unutter’d thoughts that stirYour lonest musings with light wings unheard,And feelings that find no interpreterIn deed or word!Your whole sweet self, that till by love reveal’dEven to yourself still half unknown must be!For of the wealth in souls like yours conceal’dLove keeps the key.Ah, if your whole sweet self, by all the powerOf your sweet self’s whole love in some divineFar distant hour made wholly yours, that hourMade wholly mine,And if in that blest hour all dreams came true,All doubts dissolved, all fears were whirl’d awayIn one wild storm of tendernesses newAs time’s first day,What should we both be? Hush! I do not dareEven to hear my own heart’s whisper utter’d.Be its sole answerer the silent airThis sigh has flutter’d!Robert, Lord Lytton.
SO you but love me, be it your own way,In your own time, no sooner than you will,No warmer than you would from day to day,But love me still!
Each day that still you love me seems to meA little fairer than the day before;For, daily given, love’s least must daily beA little more.
And be my most gain’d your least given, if suchYour sweet will be! I reckon not the cost,Nor count the gain, by little or by much,Or least or most.
Little or much, to me the gift I craveIs all in all. There is not any measureOf more or less can gauge the need I haveOf that dear treasure.
So you but love me, tho’ your love be cold,Mine it can chill not. Tho’ your love come late,Mine for its coming, by sweet dreams foretold,Will dreaming wait.
Yet ah, if some fair chance, before I die,One hour of waking life might let me live,Rich with the dream’d-of dear reality’Tis yours to give!
Your whole sweet self, with your sweet self’s whole love!Those eyes of fire and dew, those lips wish-haunted,Those feet whose steps like elfin music moveThro’ worlds enchanted!
Your whole sweet self! The unutter’d thoughts that stirYour lonest musings with light wings unheard,And feelings that find no interpreterIn deed or word!
Your whole sweet self, that till by love reveal’dEven to yourself still half unknown must be!For of the wealth in souls like yours conceal’dLove keeps the key.
Ah, if your whole sweet self, by all the powerOf your sweet self’s whole love in some divineFar distant hour made wholly yours, that hourMade wholly mine,
And if in that blest hour all dreams came true,All doubts dissolved, all fears were whirl’d awayIn one wild storm of tendernesses newAs time’s first day,
What should we both be? Hush! I do not dareEven to hear my own heart’s whisper utter’d.Be its sole answerer the silent airThis sigh has flutter’d!Robert, Lord Lytton.