In Xanadu did Kubla KhanA stately pleasure-dome decreeWhere Alph, the sacred river, ran,Through caverns measureless to man,Down to a sunless sea.So twice five miles of fertile groundWith walls and towers were girdled round;And there were gardens, bright with sinuous rills,Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;And here were forests ancient as the hills,Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.But oh! that deep romantic chasm, which slantedDown the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!A savage place! as holy and enchantedAs e'er beneath a waning moon was hauntedBy woman wailing for her demon-lover!And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,A mighty fountain momently was forced,Amid whose swift, half-intermitted burstHuge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail;And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and everIt flung up momently the sacred river.Five miles, meandering with a mazy motionThrough wood and dale, the sacred river ran,—Then reached the caverns measureless to man,And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean;And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from farAncestral voices prophesying war.The shadow of the dome of pleasureFloated midway on the waves,Where was heard the mingled measureFrom the fountain and the caves.It was a miracle of rare device,—A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!A damsel with a dulcimerIn a vision once I saw;It was an Abyssinian maid,And on her dulcimer she played,Singing of Mount Abora.Could I revive within meHer symphony and song,To such a deep delight 'twould win meThat, with music loud and long,I would build that dome in air,—That sunny dome! those caves of ice!And all who heard should see them there,And all should cry, Beware! bewareHis flashing eyes, his floating hair!Weave a circle round him thrice,And close your eyes with holy dread,For he on honey-dew hath fed,And drunk the milk of Paradise.Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
In Xanadu did Kubla KhanA stately pleasure-dome decreeWhere Alph, the sacred river, ran,Through caverns measureless to man,Down to a sunless sea.So twice five miles of fertile groundWith walls and towers were girdled round;And there were gardens, bright with sinuous rills,Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;And here were forests ancient as the hills,Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm, which slantedDown the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!A savage place! as holy and enchantedAs e'er beneath a waning moon was hauntedBy woman wailing for her demon-lover!And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,A mighty fountain momently was forced,Amid whose swift, half-intermitted burstHuge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail;And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and everIt flung up momently the sacred river.Five miles, meandering with a mazy motionThrough wood and dale, the sacred river ran,—Then reached the caverns measureless to man,And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean;And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from farAncestral voices prophesying war.
The shadow of the dome of pleasureFloated midway on the waves,Where was heard the mingled measureFrom the fountain and the caves.It was a miracle of rare device,—A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!A damsel with a dulcimerIn a vision once I saw;It was an Abyssinian maid,And on her dulcimer she played,Singing of Mount Abora.Could I revive within meHer symphony and song,To such a deep delight 'twould win meThat, with music loud and long,I would build that dome in air,—That sunny dome! those caves of ice!And all who heard should see them there,And all should cry, Beware! bewareHis flashing eyes, his floating hair!Weave a circle round him thrice,And close your eyes with holy dread,For he on honey-dew hath fed,And drunk the milk of Paradise.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
She was a phantom of delightWhen first she gleamed upon my sight;A lovely apparition, sentTo be a moment's ornament;Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;But all things else about her drawnFrom May-time and the cheerful dawn;A dancing shape, an image gay,To haunt, to startle, and waylay.I saw her upon nearer view,A spirit, yet a woman too!Her household motions light and free,And steps of virgin-liberty;A countenance in which did meetSweet records, promises as sweet;A creature not too bright or goodFor human nature's daily food,For transient sorrows, simple wiles,Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.And now I see with eye sereneThe very pulse of the machine;A being breathing thoughtful breath,A traveller between life and death:The reason firm, the temperate will,Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;A perfect woman, nobly plannedTo warn, to comfort, and command;And yet a spirit still, and brightWith something of an angel-light.William Wordsworth.
She was a phantom of delightWhen first she gleamed upon my sight;A lovely apparition, sentTo be a moment's ornament;Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;But all things else about her drawnFrom May-time and the cheerful dawn;A dancing shape, an image gay,To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
I saw her upon nearer view,A spirit, yet a woman too!Her household motions light and free,And steps of virgin-liberty;A countenance in which did meetSweet records, promises as sweet;A creature not too bright or goodFor human nature's daily food,For transient sorrows, simple wiles,Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye sereneThe very pulse of the machine;A being breathing thoughtful breath,A traveller between life and death:The reason firm, the temperate will,Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;A perfect woman, nobly plannedTo warn, to comfort, and command;And yet a spirit still, and brightWith something of an angel-light.
William Wordsworth.
Ah! Jeane, my maid, I stood to you,When you wer' christen'd, small an' light,Wi' tiny earms o' red an' blue,A-hangen in your robe o' white.We brought ye to the hallow'd stwone,Vor Christ to teake ye vor his own,When harvest-work wer' all a-done,An' time brought round October zun,—The slanten light o' Fall.An' I can mind the wind wer' rough,An' gather'd clouds, but brought noo storms,An' you wer' nessled warm enough,'Ithin your smilen mother's earms.The whindlen grass did quiver light,Among the stubble, feaded white,An' if at times the zunlight brokeUpon the groun', or on the vo'k,'Twer' slanten light o' Fall.An' when we brought ye droo the doorO' Knapton church, a child o' greace,There cluster'd roun' a'most a scoreO' vo'k to zee your tiny feace.An' there we all did veel so proud,To zee an op'nen in the cloud,An' then a stream o' light break droo,A-sheenen brightly down on you,—The slanten light o' Fall.But now your time's a-come to stan'In church a-blushen at my zide,The while a bridegroom vrom my han'Ha' took ye vor his faithvul bride.Your christen neame we gi'd ye here,When Fall did cool the weasten year;An' now, agean, we brought ye drooThe doorway, wi' your surneame new,In slanten light o' Fall.An' zoo vur, Jeane, your life is feair,An' God ha' been your steadvast friend,An' mid ye have mwore jay than ceare,Vor ever, till your journey's end.An' I've a-watch'd ye on wi' pride,But now I soon mus' leave your zide,Vor you ha' still life's springtide zun,But my life, Jeane, is now a-runTo slanten light o' Fall.William Barnes.
Ah! Jeane, my maid, I stood to you,When you wer' christen'd, small an' light,Wi' tiny earms o' red an' blue,A-hangen in your robe o' white.We brought ye to the hallow'd stwone,Vor Christ to teake ye vor his own,When harvest-work wer' all a-done,An' time brought round October zun,—The slanten light o' Fall.
An' I can mind the wind wer' rough,An' gather'd clouds, but brought noo storms,An' you wer' nessled warm enough,'Ithin your smilen mother's earms.The whindlen grass did quiver light,Among the stubble, feaded white,An' if at times the zunlight brokeUpon the groun', or on the vo'k,'Twer' slanten light o' Fall.
An' when we brought ye droo the doorO' Knapton church, a child o' greace,There cluster'd roun' a'most a scoreO' vo'k to zee your tiny feace.An' there we all did veel so proud,To zee an op'nen in the cloud,An' then a stream o' light break droo,A-sheenen brightly down on you,—The slanten light o' Fall.
But now your time's a-come to stan'In church a-blushen at my zide,The while a bridegroom vrom my han'Ha' took ye vor his faithvul bride.Your christen neame we gi'd ye here,When Fall did cool the weasten year;An' now, agean, we brought ye drooThe doorway, wi' your surneame new,In slanten light o' Fall.
An' zoo vur, Jeane, your life is feair,An' God ha' been your steadvast friend,An' mid ye have mwore jay than ceare,Vor ever, till your journey's end.An' I've a-watch'd ye on wi' pride,But now I soon mus' leave your zide,Vor you ha' still life's springtide zun,But my life, Jeane, is now a-runTo slanten light o' Fall.
William Barnes.
I fill this cup to one made upOf loveliness alone,A woman, of her gentle sexThe seeming paragon;To whom the better elementsAnd kindly stars have givenA form so fair, that, like the air,'Tis less of earth than heaven.Her every tone is music's own,Like those of morning birds,And something more than melodyDwells ever in her words;The coinage of her heart are they,And from her lips each flowsAs one may see the burdened beeForth issue from the rose.Affections are as thoughts to her,The measures of her hours;Her feelings have the fragrancy,The freshness of young flowers;And lovely passions, changing oft,So fill her, she appearsThe image of themselves by turns,—The idol of past years!Of her bright face one glance will traceA picture on the brain,And of her voice in echoing heartsA sound must long remain;But memory, such as mine of her,So very much endears,When death is nigh my latest sighWill not be life's, but hers.I fill this cup to one made upOf loveliness alone,A woman, of her gentle sexThe seeming paragon,—Her health! and would on earth there stoodSome more of such a frame,That life might be all poetry,And weariness a name.Edward Coate Pinkney.
I fill this cup to one made upOf loveliness alone,A woman, of her gentle sexThe seeming paragon;To whom the better elementsAnd kindly stars have givenA form so fair, that, like the air,'Tis less of earth than heaven.
Her every tone is music's own,Like those of morning birds,And something more than melodyDwells ever in her words;The coinage of her heart are they,And from her lips each flowsAs one may see the burdened beeForth issue from the rose.
Affections are as thoughts to her,The measures of her hours;Her feelings have the fragrancy,The freshness of young flowers;And lovely passions, changing oft,So fill her, she appearsThe image of themselves by turns,—The idol of past years!
Of her bright face one glance will traceA picture on the brain,And of her voice in echoing heartsA sound must long remain;But memory, such as mine of her,So very much endears,When death is nigh my latest sighWill not be life's, but hers.
I fill this cup to one made upOf loveliness alone,A woman, of her gentle sexThe seeming paragon,—Her health! and would on earth there stoodSome more of such a frame,That life might be all poetry,And weariness a name.
Edward Coate Pinkney.
That which her slender waist confinedShall now my joyful temples bind;No monarch but would give his crown,His arms might do what this hath done.It was my heaven's extremest sphere,The pale which held that lovely deer:My joy, my grief, my hope, my love,Did all within this circle move.A narrow compass! and yet thereDwelt all that's good, and all that's fair.Give me but what this ribbon bound,Take all the rest the sun goes round!Edmund Waller.
That which her slender waist confinedShall now my joyful temples bind;No monarch but would give his crown,His arms might do what this hath done.
It was my heaven's extremest sphere,The pale which held that lovely deer:My joy, my grief, my hope, my love,Did all within this circle move.
A narrow compass! and yet thereDwelt all that's good, and all that's fair.Give me but what this ribbon bound,Take all the rest the sun goes round!
Edmund Waller.
The glow and the glory are plightedTo darkness, for evening is come;The lamp in Glebe Cottage is lighted;The birds and the sheep-bells are dumb.I'm alone at my casement, for PappyIs summoned to dinner at Kew:I'm alone, my dear Fred, but I'm happy,—I'm thinking of you.I wish you were here. Were I dullerThan dull, you'd be dearer than dear;I am dressed in your favorite color,—Dear Fred, how I wish you were here!I am wearing my lazuli necklace,The necklace you fastened askew!Was there ever so rude or so recklessA darling as you?I want you to come and pass sentenceOn two or three books with a plot;Of course you know "Janet's Repentance"?I'm reading Sir Waverley Scott,The story of Edgar and Lucy,How thrilling, romantic, and true;The master (his bride was a goosey!)Reminds me of you.To-day, in my ride, I've been crowningThe beacon; its magic still lures,For up there you discoursed about Browning,That stupid old Browning of yours.His vogue and his verve are alarming,I'm anxious to give him his due;But, Fred, he's not nearly so charmingA poet as you.I heard how you shot at The Beeches,I saw how you rode Chanticleer,I have read the report of your speeches,And echoed the echoing cheer.There's a whisper of hearts you are breaking,—I envy their owners, I do!Small marvel that Fortune is makingHer idol of you.Alas for the world, and its dearlyBought triumph, and fugitive bliss!Sometimes I half wish I were merelyA plain or a penniless miss;But perhaps one is best with a measureOf pelf, and I'm not sorry, too,That I'm pretty, because it's a pleasure,My dearest, to you.Your whim is for frolic and fashion,Your taste is for letters and art;This rhyme is the commonplace passionThat glows in a fond woman's heart.Lay it by in a dainty depositFor relics,—we all have a few!—Love, some day they'll print it, because itWas written to you.Frederick Locker.
The glow and the glory are plightedTo darkness, for evening is come;The lamp in Glebe Cottage is lighted;The birds and the sheep-bells are dumb.I'm alone at my casement, for PappyIs summoned to dinner at Kew:I'm alone, my dear Fred, but I'm happy,—I'm thinking of you.
I wish you were here. Were I dullerThan dull, you'd be dearer than dear;I am dressed in your favorite color,—Dear Fred, how I wish you were here!I am wearing my lazuli necklace,The necklace you fastened askew!Was there ever so rude or so recklessA darling as you?
I want you to come and pass sentenceOn two or three books with a plot;Of course you know "Janet's Repentance"?I'm reading Sir Waverley Scott,The story of Edgar and Lucy,How thrilling, romantic, and true;The master (his bride was a goosey!)Reminds me of you.
To-day, in my ride, I've been crowningThe beacon; its magic still lures,For up there you discoursed about Browning,That stupid old Browning of yours.His vogue and his verve are alarming,I'm anxious to give him his due;But, Fred, he's not nearly so charmingA poet as you.
I heard how you shot at The Beeches,I saw how you rode Chanticleer,I have read the report of your speeches,And echoed the echoing cheer.There's a whisper of hearts you are breaking,—I envy their owners, I do!Small marvel that Fortune is makingHer idol of you.
Alas for the world, and its dearlyBought triumph, and fugitive bliss!Sometimes I half wish I were merelyA plain or a penniless miss;But perhaps one is best with a measureOf pelf, and I'm not sorry, too,That I'm pretty, because it's a pleasure,My dearest, to you.
Your whim is for frolic and fashion,Your taste is for letters and art;This rhyme is the commonplace passionThat glows in a fond woman's heart.Lay it by in a dainty depositFor relics,—we all have a few!—Love, some day they'll print it, because itWas written to you.
Frederick Locker.
God makes sech nights, all white an' stillFur'z you can look or listen.Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill,All silence an' all glisten.Zekle crep' up quite unbeknownAn' peeked in thru' the winder,An' there sot Huldy all alone,'Ith no one nigh to hender.A fireplace filled the room's one sideWith half a cord o' wood in,—There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died)To bake ye to a puddin'.The wa'nut logs shot sparkles outTowards the pootiest, bless her!An' leetle flames danced all aboutThe chiny on the dresser.Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung,An' in amongst 'em rustedThe ole queen's arm thet Gran'ther YoungFetched back from Concord busted.The very room, coz she was in,Seemed warm from floor to ceilin',An' she looked full ez rosy aginEz the apples she was peelin'.'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to lookOn sech a blesséd cretur.A dog-rose blushin' to a brookAin't modester nor sweeter.He was six foot o' man, Al,Clean grit an' human natur';None couldn't quicker pitch a tonNor dror a furrer straighter.He'd sparked it with full twenty gals,He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em,Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells,—All is, he couldn't love 'em.But long o' her his veins 'ould runAll crinkly like curled maple,The side she breshed felt full o' sunEz a south slope in Ap'il.She thought no v'ice hed sech a swingEz hisn in the choir;My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring,Sheknowedthe Lord was nigher.An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer,When her new meetin'-bunnetFelt somehow thru' its crown a pairO' blue eyes sot upon it.Thet night, I tell ye, she lookedsome!She seemed to 've gut a new soul,For she felt sartin-sure he'd come,Down to her very shoe-sole.She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu,A-raspin' on the scraper,—All ways to once her feelin's flewLike sparks in burnt-up paper.He kin' o' l'itered on the mat,Some doubtfle o' the sekle;His heart kep' goin' pity-pat,But hern went pity Zekle.An' yit she gin her cheer a jerkEz though she wished him furder,An' on her apples kep' to work,Parin' away like murder."You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?""Wal ... no ... I come dasignin'"—"To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'esAgin to-morrer's i'nin'."To say why gals acts so or so,Or don't, 'ould be presumin';Mebby to meanyesan' saynoComes nateral to women.He stood a spell on one foot fust,Then stood a spell on t' other,An' on which one he felt the wustHe couldn't ha' told ye nuther.Says he, "I'd better call agin";Says she, "Think likely, Mister";Thet last word pricked him like a pin,An' ... Wal, he up an' kist her.When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips,Huldy sot pale ez ashes,All kin' o' smily roun' the lipsAn' teary roun' the lashes.For she was jes' the quiet kindWhose naturs never vary,Like streams that keep a summer mindSnowhid in Jenooary.The blood clost roun' her heart felt gluedToo tight for all expressin',Tell mother see how metters stood,And gin 'em both her blessin'.Then her red come back like the tideDown to the Bay o' Fundy,An' all I know is they was criedIn meetin' come nex' Sunday.James Russell Lowell.
God makes sech nights, all white an' stillFur'z you can look or listen.Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill,All silence an' all glisten.
Zekle crep' up quite unbeknownAn' peeked in thru' the winder,An' there sot Huldy all alone,'Ith no one nigh to hender.
A fireplace filled the room's one sideWith half a cord o' wood in,—There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died)To bake ye to a puddin'.
The wa'nut logs shot sparkles outTowards the pootiest, bless her!An' leetle flames danced all aboutThe chiny on the dresser.
Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung,An' in amongst 'em rustedThe ole queen's arm thet Gran'ther YoungFetched back from Concord busted.
The very room, coz she was in,Seemed warm from floor to ceilin',An' she looked full ez rosy aginEz the apples she was peelin'.
'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to lookOn sech a blesséd cretur.A dog-rose blushin' to a brookAin't modester nor sweeter.
He was six foot o' man, Al,Clean grit an' human natur';None couldn't quicker pitch a tonNor dror a furrer straighter.
He'd sparked it with full twenty gals,He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em,Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells,—All is, he couldn't love 'em.
But long o' her his veins 'ould runAll crinkly like curled maple,The side she breshed felt full o' sunEz a south slope in Ap'il.
She thought no v'ice hed sech a swingEz hisn in the choir;My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring,Sheknowedthe Lord was nigher.
An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer,When her new meetin'-bunnetFelt somehow thru' its crown a pairO' blue eyes sot upon it.
Thet night, I tell ye, she lookedsome!She seemed to 've gut a new soul,For she felt sartin-sure he'd come,Down to her very shoe-sole.
She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu,A-raspin' on the scraper,—All ways to once her feelin's flewLike sparks in burnt-up paper.
He kin' o' l'itered on the mat,Some doubtfle o' the sekle;His heart kep' goin' pity-pat,But hern went pity Zekle.
An' yit she gin her cheer a jerkEz though she wished him furder,An' on her apples kep' to work,Parin' away like murder.
"You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?""Wal ... no ... I come dasignin'"—"To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'esAgin to-morrer's i'nin'."
To say why gals acts so or so,Or don't, 'ould be presumin';Mebby to meanyesan' saynoComes nateral to women.
He stood a spell on one foot fust,Then stood a spell on t' other,An' on which one he felt the wustHe couldn't ha' told ye nuther.
Says he, "I'd better call agin";Says she, "Think likely, Mister";Thet last word pricked him like a pin,An' ... Wal, he up an' kist her.
When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips,Huldy sot pale ez ashes,All kin' o' smily roun' the lipsAn' teary roun' the lashes.
For she was jes' the quiet kindWhose naturs never vary,Like streams that keep a summer mindSnowhid in Jenooary.
The blood clost roun' her heart felt gluedToo tight for all expressin',Tell mother see how metters stood,And gin 'em both her blessin'.
Then her red come back like the tideDown to the Bay o' Fundy,An' all I know is they was criedIn meetin' come nex' Sunday.
James Russell Lowell.
Come, all ye jolly shepherds,That whistle through the glen!I'll tell ye o' a secretThat courtiers dinna ken:What is the greatest blissThat the tongue o' man can name?'Tis to woo a bonnie lassieWhen the kye come hame.When the kye come hame,When the kye come hame,—'Tween the gloamin' an' the mirk,When the kye come hame.'Tis not beneath the burgonet,Nor yet beneath the crown;'Tis not on couch o' velvet,Nor yet in bed o' down:'Tis beneath the spreading birk,In the glen without the name,Wi' a bonnie bonnie lassie,When the kye come hame.There the blackbird bigs his nestFor the mate he lo'es to see,And on the tapmost boughO, a happy bird is he!There he pours his melting ditty,And love is a' the theme;And he'll woo his bonnie lassie,When the kye come hame.When the blewart bears a pearl,And the daisy turns a pea,And the bonnie lucken gowanHas fauldit up his ee,Then the laverock, frae the blue lift,Draps down and thinks nae shameTo woo his bonnie lassie,When the kye come hame.See yonder pawky shepherd,That lingers on the hill:His yowes are in the fauld,And his lambs are lying still;Yet he downa gang to bed,For his heart is in a flame,To meet his bonnie lassieWhen the kye come hame.When the little wee bit heartRises high in the breast,And the little wee bit starnRises red in the east,O, there's a joy sae dearThat the heart can hardly frame!Wi' a bonnie bonnie lassie,When the kye come hame.Then since all nature joinsIn this love without alloy,O, wha wad prove a traitorTo nature's dearest joy?Or wha wad choose a crown,Wi' its perils an' its fame,And miss his bonnie lassie,When the kye come hame?James Hogg.
Come, all ye jolly shepherds,That whistle through the glen!I'll tell ye o' a secretThat courtiers dinna ken:What is the greatest blissThat the tongue o' man can name?'Tis to woo a bonnie lassieWhen the kye come hame.When the kye come hame,When the kye come hame,—'Tween the gloamin' an' the mirk,When the kye come hame.
'Tis not beneath the burgonet,Nor yet beneath the crown;'Tis not on couch o' velvet,Nor yet in bed o' down:'Tis beneath the spreading birk,In the glen without the name,Wi' a bonnie bonnie lassie,When the kye come hame.
There the blackbird bigs his nestFor the mate he lo'es to see,And on the tapmost boughO, a happy bird is he!There he pours his melting ditty,And love is a' the theme;And he'll woo his bonnie lassie,When the kye come hame.
When the blewart bears a pearl,And the daisy turns a pea,And the bonnie lucken gowanHas fauldit up his ee,Then the laverock, frae the blue lift,Draps down and thinks nae shameTo woo his bonnie lassie,When the kye come hame.
See yonder pawky shepherd,That lingers on the hill:His yowes are in the fauld,And his lambs are lying still;Yet he downa gang to bed,For his heart is in a flame,To meet his bonnie lassieWhen the kye come hame.
When the little wee bit heartRises high in the breast,And the little wee bit starnRises red in the east,O, there's a joy sae dearThat the heart can hardly frame!Wi' a bonnie bonnie lassie,When the kye come hame.
Then since all nature joinsIn this love without alloy,O, wha wad prove a traitorTo nature's dearest joy?Or wha wad choose a crown,Wi' its perils an' its fame,And miss his bonnie lassie,When the kye come hame?
James Hogg.
Mellow the moonlight to shine is beginning;Close by the window young Eileen is spinning;Bent o'er the fire, her blind grandmother, sitting,Is croaning, and moaning, and drowsily knitting,—"Eileen, achora, I hear some one tapping.""'Tis the ivy, dear mother, against the glass flapping.""Eileen, I surely hear somebody sighing.""'Tis the sound, mother dear, of the summer wind dying."Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring,Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring;Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing,Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing."What's that noise that I hear at the window, I wonder?""'Tis the little birds chirping the holly-bush under.""What makes you be shoving and moving your stool on,And singing all wrong that old song of 'The Coolun'?"There's a form at the casement,—the form of her true-love,—And he whispers, with face bent, "I'm waiting for you, love;Get up on the stool, through the lattice step lightly,We'll rove in the grove while the moon's shining brightly."Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring,Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring;Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing,Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing.The maid shakes her head, on her lip lays her fingers,Steals up from her seat,—longs to go, and yet lingers;A frightened glance turns to her drowsy grandmother,Puts one foot on the stool, spins the wheel with the other.Lazily, easily, swings now the wheel round;Slowly and lowly is heard now the reel's sound;Noiseless and light to the lattice above herThe maid steps,—then leaps to the arms of her lover.Slower—and slower—and slower the wheel swings;Lower—and lower—and lower the reel rings;Ere the reel and the wheel stop their ringing and moving,Through the grove the young lovers by moonlight are roving.John Francis Waller.
Mellow the moonlight to shine is beginning;Close by the window young Eileen is spinning;Bent o'er the fire, her blind grandmother, sitting,Is croaning, and moaning, and drowsily knitting,—"Eileen, achora, I hear some one tapping.""'Tis the ivy, dear mother, against the glass flapping.""Eileen, I surely hear somebody sighing.""'Tis the sound, mother dear, of the summer wind dying."Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring,Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring;Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing,Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing.
"What's that noise that I hear at the window, I wonder?""'Tis the little birds chirping the holly-bush under.""What makes you be shoving and moving your stool on,And singing all wrong that old song of 'The Coolun'?"There's a form at the casement,—the form of her true-love,—And he whispers, with face bent, "I'm waiting for you, love;Get up on the stool, through the lattice step lightly,We'll rove in the grove while the moon's shining brightly."Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring,Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring;Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing,Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing.
The maid shakes her head, on her lip lays her fingers,Steals up from her seat,—longs to go, and yet lingers;A frightened glance turns to her drowsy grandmother,Puts one foot on the stool, spins the wheel with the other.Lazily, easily, swings now the wheel round;Slowly and lowly is heard now the reel's sound;Noiseless and light to the lattice above herThe maid steps,—then leaps to the arms of her lover.Slower—and slower—and slower the wheel swings;Lower—and lower—and lower the reel rings;Ere the reel and the wheel stop their ringing and moving,Through the grove the young lovers by moonlight are roving.
John Francis Waller.
She walks in beauty like the nightOf cloudless climes and starry skies;And all that's best of dark and brightMeets in her aspect and her eyes;Thus mellowed to that tender lightWhich heaven to gaudy day denies.One shade the more, one ray the less,Had half impaired the nameless graceWhich waves in every raven tress,Or softly lightens o'er her face;Where thoughts serenely sweet expressHow pure, how dear their dwelling-place.And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,The smiles that win, the tints that glow,But tell of days in goodness spent,A mind at peace with all below,A heart whose love is innocent.Lord Byron.
She walks in beauty like the nightOf cloudless climes and starry skies;And all that's best of dark and brightMeets in her aspect and her eyes;Thus mellowed to that tender lightWhich heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,Had half impaired the nameless graceWhich waves in every raven tress,Or softly lightens o'er her face;Where thoughts serenely sweet expressHow pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,The smiles that win, the tints that glow,But tell of days in goodness spent,A mind at peace with all below,A heart whose love is innocent.
Lord Byron.
Come in the evening, or come in the morning;Come when you're looked for, or come without warning;Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you,And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you!Light is my heart since the day we were plighted;Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted;The green of the trees looks far greener than ever,And the linnets are singing, "True lovers don't sever!"I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose them!Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my bosom;I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire you;I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you.O, your step's like the rain to the summer-vexed farmer,Or sabre and shield to a knight without armor;I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above me,Then, wandering, I'll wish you, in silence, to love me.We'll look through the trees at the cliff and the eyry;We'll tread round the rath on the track of the fairy;We'll look on the stars, and we'll list to the river,Till you ask of your darling what gift you can give her,—O, she'll whisper you, "Love, as unchangeably beaming,And trust, when in secret, most tunefully streaming;Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver,As our souls flow in one down eternity's river."So come in the evening, or come in the morning:Come when you're looked for, or come without warning;Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you,And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you!Light is my heart since the day we were plighted;Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted;The green of the trees looks far greener than ever,And the linnets are singing, "True lovers don't sever!"Thomas Davis.
Come in the evening, or come in the morning;Come when you're looked for, or come without warning;Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you,And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you!Light is my heart since the day we were plighted;Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted;The green of the trees looks far greener than ever,And the linnets are singing, "True lovers don't sever!"
I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose them!Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my bosom;I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire you;I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you.O, your step's like the rain to the summer-vexed farmer,Or sabre and shield to a knight without armor;I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above me,Then, wandering, I'll wish you, in silence, to love me.
We'll look through the trees at the cliff and the eyry;We'll tread round the rath on the track of the fairy;We'll look on the stars, and we'll list to the river,Till you ask of your darling what gift you can give her,—O, she'll whisper you, "Love, as unchangeably beaming,And trust, when in secret, most tunefully streaming;Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver,As our souls flow in one down eternity's river."
So come in the evening, or come in the morning:Come when you're looked for, or come without warning;Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you,And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you!Light is my heart since the day we were plighted;Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted;The green of the trees looks far greener than ever,And the linnets are singing, "True lovers don't sever!"
Thomas Davis.
I wandered by the brookside,I wandered by the mill;I could not hear the brook flow,—The noisy wheel was still.There was no burr of grasshopper,No chirp of any bird,But the beating of my own heartWas all the sound I heard.I sat beneath the elm-tree:I watched the long, long shade,And, as it grew still longer,I did not feel afraid;For I listened for a footfall,I listened for a word,—But the beating of my own heartWas all the sound I heard.He came not,—no, he came not,—The night came on alone,—The little stars sat one by one,Each on his golden throne;The evening wind passed by my cheek,The leaves above were stirred,—But the beating of my own heartWas all the sound I heard.Fast, silent tears were flowing,When something stood behind:A hand was on my shoulder,—I knew its touch was kind:It drew me nearer—nearer—We did not speak one word,For the beating of our own heartsWas all the sound we heard.Richard Monckton Milnes.
I wandered by the brookside,I wandered by the mill;I could not hear the brook flow,—The noisy wheel was still.There was no burr of grasshopper,No chirp of any bird,But the beating of my own heartWas all the sound I heard.
I sat beneath the elm-tree:I watched the long, long shade,And, as it grew still longer,I did not feel afraid;For I listened for a footfall,I listened for a word,—But the beating of my own heartWas all the sound I heard.
He came not,—no, he came not,—The night came on alone,—The little stars sat one by one,Each on his golden throne;The evening wind passed by my cheek,The leaves above were stirred,—But the beating of my own heartWas all the sound I heard.
Fast, silent tears were flowing,When something stood behind:A hand was on my shoulder,—I knew its touch was kind:It drew me nearer—nearer—We did not speak one word,For the beating of our own heartsWas all the sound we heard.
Richard Monckton Milnes.
With blackest moss the flower-potsWere thickly crusted, one and all:The rusted nails fell from the knotsThat held the peach to the garden-wall.The broken sheds looked sad and strange:Unlifted was the clinking latch:Weeded and worn the ancient thatchUpon the lonely moated grange.She only said, "My life is dreary,He cometh not," she said;She said, "I am aweary, aweary,I would that I were dead!"Her tears fell with the dews at even;Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;She could not look on the sweet heaven,Either at morn or eventide.After the flitting of the bats,When thickest dark did trance the sky,She drew her casement-curtain by,And glanced athwart the glooming flats.She only said, "The night is dreary,He cometh not," she said;She said, "I am aweary, aweary,I would that I were dead!"Upon the middle of the night,Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:The cock sung out an hour ere light:From the dark fen the oxen's lowCame to her: without hope of change,In sleep she seemed to walk forlorn,Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed mornAbout the lonely moated grange.She only said, "The day is dreary,He cometh not," she said;She said, "I am aweary, aweary,I would that I were dead!"About a stone-cast from the wallA sluice with blackened waters slept,And o'er it many, round and small,The clustered marish-mosses crept.Hard by a poplar shook alway,All silver-green with gnarléd bark:For leagues no other tree did markThe level waste, the rounding gray.She only said, "My life is dreary,He cometh not," she said;She said, "I am aweary, aweary,I would that I were dead!"And ever when the moon was low,And the shrill winds were up and away,In the white curtain, to and fro,She saw the gusty shadow sway.But when the moon was very low,And wild winds bound within their cell,The shadow of the poplar fellUpon her bed, across her brow.She only said, "The night is dreary,He cometh not," she said;She said, "I am aweary, aweary,I would that I were dead!"All day within the dreamy house,The doors upon their hinges creaked;The blue-fly sung i' the pane; the mouseBehind the mouldering wainscot shrieked,Or from the crevice peered about.Old faces glimmered through the doors,Old footsteps trod the upper floors,Old voices called her from without.She only said, "My life is dreary,He cometh not," she said;She said, "I am aweary, aweary,I would that I were dead!"The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,The slow clock ticking, and the soundWhich to the wooing wind aloofThe poplar made, did all confoundHer sense; but most she loathed the hourWhen the thick-moted sunbeam layAthwart the chambers, and the dayWas sloping toward his western bower.Then said she, "I am very dreary,He will not come," she said;She wept, "I am aweary, aweary,O God, that I were dead!"Alfred Tennyson.
With blackest moss the flower-potsWere thickly crusted, one and all:The rusted nails fell from the knotsThat held the peach to the garden-wall.The broken sheds looked sad and strange:Unlifted was the clinking latch:Weeded and worn the ancient thatchUpon the lonely moated grange.She only said, "My life is dreary,He cometh not," she said;She said, "I am aweary, aweary,I would that I were dead!"
Her tears fell with the dews at even;Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;She could not look on the sweet heaven,Either at morn or eventide.After the flitting of the bats,When thickest dark did trance the sky,She drew her casement-curtain by,And glanced athwart the glooming flats.She only said, "The night is dreary,He cometh not," she said;She said, "I am aweary, aweary,I would that I were dead!"
Upon the middle of the night,Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:The cock sung out an hour ere light:From the dark fen the oxen's lowCame to her: without hope of change,In sleep she seemed to walk forlorn,Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed mornAbout the lonely moated grange.She only said, "The day is dreary,He cometh not," she said;She said, "I am aweary, aweary,I would that I were dead!"
About a stone-cast from the wallA sluice with blackened waters slept,And o'er it many, round and small,The clustered marish-mosses crept.Hard by a poplar shook alway,All silver-green with gnarléd bark:For leagues no other tree did markThe level waste, the rounding gray.She only said, "My life is dreary,He cometh not," she said;She said, "I am aweary, aweary,I would that I were dead!"
And ever when the moon was low,And the shrill winds were up and away,In the white curtain, to and fro,She saw the gusty shadow sway.But when the moon was very low,And wild winds bound within their cell,The shadow of the poplar fellUpon her bed, across her brow.She only said, "The night is dreary,He cometh not," she said;She said, "I am aweary, aweary,I would that I were dead!"
All day within the dreamy house,The doors upon their hinges creaked;The blue-fly sung i' the pane; the mouseBehind the mouldering wainscot shrieked,Or from the crevice peered about.Old faces glimmered through the doors,Old footsteps trod the upper floors,Old voices called her from without.She only said, "My life is dreary,He cometh not," she said;She said, "I am aweary, aweary,I would that I were dead!"
The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,The slow clock ticking, and the soundWhich to the wooing wind aloofThe poplar made, did all confoundHer sense; but most she loathed the hourWhen the thick-moted sunbeam layAthwart the chambers, and the dayWas sloping toward his western bower.Then said she, "I am very dreary,He will not come," she said;She wept, "I am aweary, aweary,O God, that I were dead!"
Alfred Tennyson.
The splendor falls on castle wallsAnd snowy summits old in story;The long light shakes across the lakes,And the wild cataract leaps in glory.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,And thinner, clearer, farther going!O sweet and far from cliff and scarThe horns of Elfland faintly blowing!Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.O love, they die in yon rich sky,They faint on hill or field or river:Our echoes roll from soul to soul,And grow forever and forever.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.Alfred Tennyson.
The splendor falls on castle wallsAnd snowy summits old in story;The long light shakes across the lakes,And the wild cataract leaps in glory.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,And thinner, clearer, farther going!O sweet and far from cliff and scarThe horns of Elfland faintly blowing!Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O love, they die in yon rich sky,They faint on hill or field or river:Our echoes roll from soul to soul,And grow forever and forever.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
Alfred Tennyson.
Stars of the summer night!Far in yon azure deeps,Hide, hide your golden light!She sleeps!My lady sleeps!Sleeps!Moon of the summer night!Far down yon western steeps,Sink, sink in silver light!She sleeps!My lady sleeps!Sleeps!Wind of the summer night!Where yonder woodbine creeps,Fold, fold thy pinions light!She sleeps!My lady sleeps!Sleeps!Dreams of the summer night!Tell her, her lover keepsWatch, while in slumbers lightShe sleeps!My lady sleeps!Sleeps!Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
Stars of the summer night!Far in yon azure deeps,Hide, hide your golden light!She sleeps!My lady sleeps!Sleeps!
Moon of the summer night!Far down yon western steeps,Sink, sink in silver light!She sleeps!My lady sleeps!Sleeps!
Wind of the summer night!Where yonder woodbine creeps,Fold, fold thy pinions light!She sleeps!My lady sleeps!Sleeps!
Dreams of the summer night!Tell her, her lover keepsWatch, while in slumbers lightShe sleeps!My lady sleeps!Sleeps!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
I arise from dreams of thee,In the first sweet sleep of night,When the winds are breathing low,And the stars are shining bright;I arise from dreams of thee,And a spirit in my feetHas led me,—who knows how?To thy chamber-window, sweet!The wandering airs they faintOn the dark, the silent stream,—The champak odors fail,Like sweet thoughts in a dream.The nightingale's complaintIt dies upon her heart,As I must die on thine,O beloved as thou art!O lift me from the grass!I die, I faint, I fail.Let thy love in kisses rainOn my lips and eyelids pale.My cheek is cold and white, alas!My heart beats loud and fast.Oh! press it close to thine again,Where it will break at last.Percy Bysshe Shelley.
I arise from dreams of thee,In the first sweet sleep of night,When the winds are breathing low,And the stars are shining bright;I arise from dreams of thee,And a spirit in my feetHas led me,—who knows how?To thy chamber-window, sweet!
The wandering airs they faintOn the dark, the silent stream,—The champak odors fail,Like sweet thoughts in a dream.The nightingale's complaintIt dies upon her heart,As I must die on thine,O beloved as thou art!
O lift me from the grass!I die, I faint, I fail.Let thy love in kisses rainOn my lips and eyelids pale.My cheek is cold and white, alas!My heart beats loud and fast.Oh! press it close to thine again,Where it will break at last.
Percy Bysshe Shelley.