THE SIRENS

I can not tell what I would tell thee,What I would say, what thou shouldst hear;Words of the soul that should compel thee,Words of the heart to draw thee near.For when thou smilest, thou, who fillestMy life with joy, and I would speak,’Tis then my lips and tongue are stillest,Knowing all language is too weak.Look in my eyes: read there confession:The truest love hath least of art:Nor needs it words for its expressionWhen soul speaks soul and heart speaks heart.

I can not tell what I would tell thee,What I would say, what thou shouldst hear;Words of the soul that should compel thee,Words of the heart to draw thee near.

For when thou smilest, thou, who fillestMy life with joy, and I would speak,’Tis then my lips and tongue are stillest,Knowing all language is too weak.

Look in my eyes: read there confession:The truest love hath least of art:Nor needs it words for its expressionWhen soul speaks soul and heart speaks heart.

Wail! wail! and smite your lyres’ sonorous gold,And beckon naked beauty; luring meWith arms and breasts and hips of godly mold,Dark, wind-wild locks seen through the surf-blown sea!Vain all your magic! dull in unclosed ears!Beside one voice sweet-calling o’er the foam,That, in my heart, like some strong hand appearsTo gently, firmly draw my vessel home.

Wail! wail! and smite your lyres’ sonorous gold,And beckon naked beauty; luring meWith arms and breasts and hips of godly mold,Dark, wind-wild locks seen through the surf-blown sea!

Vain all your magic! dull in unclosed ears!Beside one voice sweet-calling o’er the foam,That, in my heart, like some strong hand appearsTo gently, firmly draw my vessel home.

Why are the bright stars brighter after rain?Why is strong love the stronger after pain?Reply, reply!Why sings the wild swan heavenliest when it dies?Why is fair love the fairest when it flies?Oh why! Oh why!Why are sweet kisses sweetest when they’re dead?Why is love loveliest when ’tis buriéd?Reply, reply!

Why are the bright stars brighter after rain?Why is strong love the stronger after pain?Reply, reply!

Why sings the wild swan heavenliest when it dies?Why is fair love the fairest when it flies?Oh why! Oh why!

Why are sweet kisses sweetest when they’re dead?Why is love loveliest when ’tis buriéd?Reply, reply!

A disc of violet blue,Rimmed with a thorn of fire,The new moon hangs in a sky of dew;And under the vines, where the sunset’s hueIs blent with blooms, first one, then two,Begins the crickets’ choir.Bright blurs of golden white,With points of pearly glimmer,The first stars wink in the web of night;And through the flowers the moths take flight,In the honeysuckle-colored light,Where the shadowy shrubs grow dimmer.Soft through the dim and dying eve,Sweet through the dusk and dew,Come, while the hours their witchcraft weave,Dim in the House of the Soul’s-sweet-leave,Here in the pale and perfumed eve,Here where I wait for you.A great, dark, radiant rose,Dripping with starry glower,Is the night, whose bosom overflowsWith the balsam musk of the breeze that blowsInto the heart, as each one knows,Of every nodding flower.A voice that sighs and sighs,Then whispers like a spirit,Is the wind, that kisses the drowsy eyesOf the primrose open, and, rocking, liesIn the lily’s cradle, and soft untiesThe rose-bud’s crimson near it.Sweet through the deep and dreaming night,Soft through the dark and dew,Come, where the moments their magic write,Deep in the Book of the Heart’s-delight,Here in the hushed and haunted night,Here where I wait for you.

Bright blurs of golden white,With points of pearly glimmer,The first stars wink in the web of night;And through the flowers the moths take flight,In the honeysuckle-colored light,Where the shadowy shrubs grow dimmer.

Soft through the dim and dying eve,Sweet through the dusk and dew,Come, while the hours their witchcraft weave,Dim in the House of the Soul’s-sweet-leave,Here in the pale and perfumed eve,Here where I wait for you.

A great, dark, radiant rose,Dripping with starry glower,Is the night, whose bosom overflowsWith the balsam musk of the breeze that blowsInto the heart, as each one knows,Of every nodding flower.

A voice that sighs and sighs,Then whispers like a spirit,Is the wind, that kisses the drowsy eyesOf the primrose open, and, rocking, liesIn the lily’s cradle, and soft untiesThe rose-bud’s crimson near it.

Sweet through the deep and dreaming night,Soft through the dark and dew,Come, where the moments their magic write,Deep in the Book of the Heart’s-delight,Here in the hushed and haunted night,Here where I wait for you.

Before Love’s lofty goddess—Life hath toiledTo mold from burning dew and dewy fire—Who kneel and worship with a heart sin-soiled,Within the secret Temple of Desire;Their curse is such: that, even while they pray,—They shall not see, nor shall they know thereof!—Their Deity is changed from fire to clay—Lust! fashioned in the very form of Love.

Before Love’s lofty goddess—Life hath toiledTo mold from burning dew and dewy fire—Who kneel and worship with a heart sin-soiled,Within the secret Temple of Desire;

Their curse is such: that, even while they pray,—They shall not see, nor shall they know thereof!—Their Deity is changed from fire to clay—Lust! fashioned in the very form of Love.

The rosy hills of her high breasts,Whereon, like misty morning, restsThe breathing lace; her auburn hair,Wherein, a star-point sparkling there,One jewel burns: her eyes, that keepRecorded dreams of love and sleep:Her mouth, with whose comparisonThe richest rose were poor and wan:Her throat, her form—what masterpieceOf man can picture half of these!—She comes! a classic from the handOf God! wherethrough I understandWhat Nature means and Art and Love,And all the immortal myths thereof.

There is no flower of wood or lea,No April flower, as fair as she:O white anemone, who hastThe wind’s wild grace,Know her a cousin of thy race,Into whose faceA presence like the wind’s hath passed.There is no flower of wood or lea,No May-day flower, as fair as she:O bluebell, tender with the blueOf sapphire skies,Thy lineage hath kindred tiesIn her, whose eyesThe heaven’s own qualities imbue.There is no flower of wood or lea,No June-time flower, as fair as she:Rose,—odorous with beauty ofHer lips that pressed,—Behold thy sister here confessed!Whose maiden breastIs fragrant with the dreams of love.

There is no flower of wood or lea,No May-day flower, as fair as she:O bluebell, tender with the blueOf sapphire skies,Thy lineage hath kindred tiesIn her, whose eyesThe heaven’s own qualities imbue.

There is no flower of wood or lea,No June-time flower, as fair as she:Rose,—odorous with beauty ofHer lips that pressed,—Behold thy sister here confessed!Whose maiden breastIs fragrant with the dreams of love.

She is so much to me, to me,And, oh, I love her so,I look into my soul and seeHow comfort keeps me companyIn hopes she, too, may know.I love her, I love her, I love her,This I know.So dear she is to me, so dear,And, oh, I love her so,I listen in my heart and hearThe voice of gladness singing nearIn thoughts she, too, may know.I love her, I love her, I love her,This I know.So much she is to me, so much,And, oh, I love her so,In heart and soul I feel the touchOf angel callers, that are suchDreams as she, too, may know.I love her, I love her, I love her,This I know.

She is so much to me, to me,And, oh, I love her so,I look into my soul and seeHow comfort keeps me companyIn hopes she, too, may know.I love her, I love her, I love her,This I know.

So dear she is to me, so dear,And, oh, I love her so,I listen in my heart and hearThe voice of gladness singing nearIn thoughts she, too, may know.I love her, I love her, I love her,This I know.

So much she is to me, so much,And, oh, I love her so,In heart and soul I feel the touchOf angel callers, that are suchDreams as she, too, may know.I love her, I love her, I love her,This I know.

In her dark eyes dreams poetize;The soul sits lost in love:There is no thing in all the skies,To gladden all the world I prize,Like the deep love in her dark eyes,Or one sweet dream thereof.In her dark eyes, where thoughts arise,Her soul’s soft moods I see:Of hope and faith, that make life wise;And charity, whose food is sighs—Not truer than her own true eyesIs truth’s divinity.In her dark eyes the knowledge liesOf an immortal sod,Her soul once trod in angel guise,Nor can forget its heavenly ties,Since, there in Heaven, upon her eyesOnce gazed the eyes of God.

In her dark eyes dreams poetize;The soul sits lost in love:There is no thing in all the skies,To gladden all the world I prize,Like the deep love in her dark eyes,Or one sweet dream thereof.

In her dark eyes, where thoughts arise,Her soul’s soft moods I see:Of hope and faith, that make life wise;And charity, whose food is sighs—Not truer than her own true eyesIs truth’s divinity.

In her dark eyes the knowledge liesOf an immortal sod,Her soul once trod in angel guise,Nor can forget its heavenly ties,Since, there in Heaven, upon her eyesOnce gazed the eyes of God.

The wind, that gives the rose a kiss,With murmured music of the south,Hath kissed a sweeter thing than this;—The wind, that gives the rose a kiss,—Hath kissed the red rose of her mouth.The brook, that mirrors skies and trees,And echoes in a grottoed place,Hath held a fairer thing than these;—The brook, that mirrors skies and trees,Hath held the image of her face.O happy wind! O happy brook!What message from her do you bear?—“We bear from her her kiss and look—”O happy wind! O happy brook!—“That blessed us unaware.”

The wind, that gives the rose a kiss,With murmured music of the south,Hath kissed a sweeter thing than this;—The wind, that gives the rose a kiss,—Hath kissed the red rose of her mouth.

The brook, that mirrors skies and trees,And echoes in a grottoed place,Hath held a fairer thing than these;—The brook, that mirrors skies and trees,Hath held the image of her face.

O happy wind! O happy brook!What message from her do you bear?—“We bear from her her kiss and look—”O happy wind! O happy brook!—“That blessed us unaware.”

While sunset burns and stars are few,And roses scent the fading light;And, like a slim urn, dripping dew,A spirit carries through the night,The pearl-pale moon hangs new,—I think of you, of you.

While waters flow, and soft winds wooThe golden-hearted bud with sighs;And, like a flower an angel threw,Out of the momentary skiesA star falls, burning blue,—I dream of you, of you.

While love believes and hearts are true,So let me think, so let me dream;The thought and dream so wedded toYour face, that, far apart, I seemTo see each thing you do,And be with you, with you.

I know not if she be unkind;If she have faults, I do not care.Search through the world—where will you findA face like hers, a form, a mind?—I love her to despair!If she be cruel, crueltyIs a great virtue, I will swear:If she be proud, then pride must beBetter than all humility.—I love her to despair!Why speak to me of that or this?All you may say weighs not a hair!To me, naught but perfection isIn her, whose lips I may not kiss!—I love her to despair!

I know not if she be unkind;If she have faults, I do not care.Search through the world—where will you findA face like hers, a form, a mind?—I love her to despair!

If she be cruel, crueltyIs a great virtue, I will swear:If she be proud, then pride must beBetter than all humility.—I love her to despair!

Why speak to me of that or this?All you may say weighs not a hair!To me, naught but perfection isIn her, whose lips I may not kiss!—I love her to despair!

Sweet lips, where kisses sleep,Soft eyes, so filled with dreams,Waken, oh waken!Open your blossoms deep,Sweet lips, where kisses sleep:Unfold your brightest beams,Soft eyes, so filled with dreams:Waken, oh, waken!

Sweet lips, that give perfume,Soft eyes, that kindle light,Come, let me kiss you!—To every flower in bloom,Sweet lips, you lend perfume!In every star at night,Soft eyes, you kindle light!—Come, let me kiss you!

Who would not love to rest?Who would not love to lie?Who would not love them?Of such sweet flowers caressed,Who would not love to rest?With such stars in their sky,Who would not love to lie?Who would not love them?

When spring is here and MargeryGoes walking in the woods with me,She is so white, she is so shy,The little leaves clap hands and cry—“Perdie;So white is she, so shy is she,Ah me!The maiden May hath just passed by!”

When summer ’s here and MargeryGoes walking in the fields with me,She is so pure, she is so fair,The wildflowers eye her and declare—“Perdie!So pure is she, so fair is she,Just see,Where our sweet cousin takes the air!”

Why is it that my MargeryHears nothing that these say to me?She is so good, she is so true,My heart it maketh such ado,Perdie!So good is she, so true is she,You see,She can not hear the other two.

Beyond the orchard, in the lane,The crested red-bird sings again—O bird, whose song says, “Have no care,”Should I not care when Constance there,—My Constance with the bashful gaze,Pink-gowned like some sweet hollyhock,—If I declare my love, just saysSome careless thing as if in mock?Like—“Past the orchard, in the lane,Hark! how the red-bird sings again!”There, while the red-bird sings his best,His listening mate sits on the nest—O bird, whose patience says, “All ’s well,”How can it be with me, come, tell?When Constance, with averted eyes,—Soft-bonneted as some sweet-pea,—If I talk marriage, just repliesWith some such quaint irrelevancy,As, “While the red-bird sings his best,His loving mate sits on the nest.”What shall I say? what can I do?Would such replies mean aught to you,O birds, whose music says, “Be glad”?Have I not reason to be sadWhen Constance, with demurest glance,Her face all poppied with distress,If I reproach her, pouts, perchance,And answers thus in waywardness?—“What shall I say? what can I do?My meaning should be plain to you!”

There, while the red-bird sings his best,His listening mate sits on the nest—O bird, whose patience says, “All ’s well,”How can it be with me, come, tell?When Constance, with averted eyes,—Soft-bonneted as some sweet-pea,—If I talk marriage, just repliesWith some such quaint irrelevancy,As, “While the red-bird sings his best,His loving mate sits on the nest.”

What shall I say? what can I do?Would such replies mean aught to you,O birds, whose music says, “Be glad”?Have I not reason to be sadWhen Constance, with demurest glance,Her face all poppied with distress,If I reproach her, pouts, perchance,And answers thus in waywardness?—“What shall I say? what can I do?My meaning should be plain to you!”

When Autumn’s here and days are short,Let Lydia laugh and, hey!Straightway ’t is May-day in my heart,And blossoms strew the way.When Summer ’s here and days are long,Let Lydia sigh and, ho!December’s fields I walk among,And shiver in the snow.No matter what the seasons are,My Lydia is so dear,My heart admits no calendarOf Earth when she is near.

When Autumn’s here and days are short,Let Lydia laugh and, hey!Straightway ’t is May-day in my heart,And blossoms strew the way.

When Summer ’s here and days are long,Let Lydia sigh and, ho!December’s fields I walk among,And shiver in the snow.

No matter what the seasons are,My Lydia is so dear,My heart admits no calendarOf Earth when she is near.

Heaped in raven loops and massesOver temples smooth and fair,Have you marked it, as she passes,Night and starlight mingled there,—Braided strands of midnight air,—Helen’s hair?Deep with dreams and moony mazesOf the thought that in them lies,Have you seen them, as she raisesThem in question or surprise,—Two gray gleams of daybreak skies,—Helen’s eyes?Fresh as dew and honied waftersOf a music sweet that slips,Have you marked them, brimmed with laughter’sSong and sunshine to their tips,—Blossoms whence the perfume drips,—Helen’s lips?He who sees her needs must love her:But, beware, whoe’er thou art!Lest like me thou shouldst discoverNature overlooked one part,In this masterpiece of art—Helen’s heart.

Heaped in raven loops and massesOver temples smooth and fair,Have you marked it, as she passes,Night and starlight mingled there,—Braided strands of midnight air,—Helen’s hair?

Deep with dreams and moony mazesOf the thought that in them lies,Have you seen them, as she raisesThem in question or surprise,—Two gray gleams of daybreak skies,—Helen’s eyes?

Fresh as dew and honied waftersOf a music sweet that slips,Have you marked them, brimmed with laughter’sSong and sunshine to their tips,—Blossoms whence the perfume drips,—Helen’s lips?

He who sees her needs must love her:But, beware, whoe’er thou art!Lest like me thou shouldst discoverNature overlooked one part,In this masterpiece of art—Helen’s heart.

Oh, Mignon’s mouth is like a rose,A red, red rose, that half uncurlsSweet petals o’er a crimson bee:Or like a shell, that, opening, showsWithin its rosy curve white pearls,White rows of pearls,Is Mignon’s mouth that smiles at me.Oh, Mignon’s eyes are like blue gems,Two azure gems that gleam and glow,Soft sapphires set in ivory:Or like twin violets, whose stemsBloom blue beneath the covering snow,The lidded snow,Are Mignon’s eyes that laugh at me.O mouth of Mignon, Mignon’s eyes!O eyes of violet, mouth of fire!—Within which lies all ecstasyOf tears and kisses and of sighs:—O mouth, O eyes, and O desire,O love’s desire,Have mercy on the soul of me!

Oh, Mignon’s eyes are like blue gems,Two azure gems that gleam and glow,Soft sapphires set in ivory:Or like twin violets, whose stemsBloom blue beneath the covering snow,The lidded snow,Are Mignon’s eyes that laugh at me.

O mouth of Mignon, Mignon’s eyes!O eyes of violet, mouth of fire!—Within which lies all ecstasyOf tears and kisses and of sighs:—O mouth, O eyes, and O desire,O love’s desire,Have mercy on the soul of me!

A sunbeam and a drop of dewLay on a red rose in the South:God took the three and made her mouth,Her sweet, small mouth,So red of hue,—The burning baptism of His kissStill fills my heart with heavenly bliss.

A dream of truth and love come trueSlept on a star in daybreak skies:God mingled these and made her eyes,Her dear, clear eyes,So gray of hue,—The high communion of His gazeStill fills my soul with deep amaze.

In girandoles of gladiolesThe day had kindled flame;And Heaven a door of gold and pearlUnclosed, whence Morning,—like a girl,A red rose twisted in a curl,—Down sapphire stairways came.Said I to Love: “What must I do?What shall I do? what can I do?”Said I to Love: “What must I do,All on a summer’s morning?”Said Love to me: “Go woo, go woo.”Said Love to me: “Go woo.If she be milking, follow, O!And in the clover hollow, O!While through the dew the bells clang clear,Just whisper it into her ear,All on a summer’s morning.”

In girandoles of gladiolesThe day had kindled flame;And Heaven a door of gold and pearlUnclosed, whence Morning,—like a girl,A red rose twisted in a curl,—Down sapphire stairways came.

Said I to Love: “What must I do?What shall I do? what can I do?”Said I to Love: “What must I do,All on a summer’s morning?”

Said Love to me: “Go woo, go woo.”Said Love to me: “Go woo.If she be milking, follow, O!And in the clover hollow, O!While through the dew the bells clang clear,Just whisper it into her ear,All on a summer’s morning.”

Of honey and heat and weed and wheatThe day had made perfume;And Heaven a tower of turquoise raised,Whence Noon, like some pale woman, gazed—A sunflower withering at her waist—Within a crystal room.Said I to Love: “What must I do?What shall I do? what can I do?”Said I to Love: “What must I do,All in the summer nooning?”Said Love to me: “Go woo, go woo.”Said Love to me: “Go woo.If she be ’mid the rakers, O!Among the harvest acres, O!While every breeze brings scents of hay,Just hold her hand and not take ‘nay,’All in the summer nooning.”

Said I to Love: “What must I do?What shall I do? what can I do?”Said I to Love: “What must I do,All in the summer nooning?”

Said Love to me: “Go woo, go woo.”Said Love to me: “Go woo.If she be ’mid the rakers, O!Among the harvest acres, O!While every breeze brings scents of hay,Just hold her hand and not take ‘nay,’All in the summer nooning.”

With song and sigh and cricket cryThe day had mingled rest;And Heaven a casement opened wideOf opal, whence, like some young bride,The Twilight leaned, all starry eyed,A moonflower on her breast.Said I to Love: “What must I do?What shall I do? what can I do?”Said I to Love: “What must I do,All in the summer gloaming?”Said Love to me: “Go woo, go woo.”Said Love to me: “Go woo,Go meet her at the trysting, O!And ’spite of her resisting, O!Beneath the stars and afterglow,Just clasp her close and kiss her—so,All in the summer gloaming.”

With song and sigh and cricket cryThe day had mingled rest;And Heaven a casement opened wideOf opal, whence, like some young bride,The Twilight leaned, all starry eyed,A moonflower on her breast.

Said I to Love: “What must I do?What shall I do? what can I do?”Said I to Love: “What must I do,All in the summer gloaming?”

Said Love to me: “Go woo, go woo.”Said Love to me: “Go woo,Go meet her at the trysting, O!And ’spite of her resisting, O!Beneath the stars and afterglow,Just clasp her close and kiss her—so,All in the summer gloaming.”

Between the rose’s and the canna’s crimson,Beneath thy window in the night I stand;The jeweled dew hangs little stars, in rims, onThe white moonflowers; each a spirit handThat points the path to mystic Shadowland.Awaken, sweet and fair!And add to night thy grace!Suffer its loveliness to shareThe white moon of thy face,The dark cloud of thy hair.Awaken, sweet and fair!

Awaken, sweet and fair!And add to night thy grace!Suffer its loveliness to shareThe white moon of thy face,The dark cloud of thy hair.Awaken, sweet and fair!

A moth, like down, swings on th’ althea’s pistil,—Ghost of a tone that haunts its bell’s deep dome;—And in the August-lily’s cone of crystalA firefly hangs the lantern of a gnome,Green as a gem that gleams through hollow foam.Approach! the moment flies!O sweetheart of the South!Come! mingle with night’s mysteriesThe red rose of thy mouth,The dark stars of thine eyes.—Approach! the moment flies!

Approach! the moment flies!O sweetheart of the South!Come! mingle with night’s mysteriesThe red rose of thy mouth,The dark stars of thine eyes.—Approach! the moment flies!

Dim through the dusk, like some unearthly presence,The night-song silvers of a dreaming bird;And with it borne, faint on a breeze-blown essence,The rainy whisper of a fountain’s heard—As if young lips had breathed a perfumed word.How long, my love, my bliss!How long must I awaitWith night—that all impatience is—Thy greeting at the gate,And at the gate thy kiss?How long, my love, my bliss!

How long, my love, my bliss!How long must I awaitWith night—that all impatience is—Thy greeting at the gate,And at the gate thy kiss?How long, my love, my bliss!

The cactus and the aloe bloomBeneath the window of your room;That window where, at evenfall,Beneath the twilight’s first pale star,You linger, tall and spiritual,And hearken my guitar.It is the hourWhen every flowerIs wooed of moth or bee—Would, would you were the flower, dear,And I the moth to draw you near,To draw you near to me,My dear,To draw you near to me!

The cactus and the aloe bloomBeneath the window of your room;That window where, at evenfall,Beneath the twilight’s first pale star,You linger, tall and spiritual,And hearken my guitar.

It is the hourWhen every flowerIs wooed of moth or bee—Would, would you were the flower, dear,And I the moth to draw you near,To draw you near to me,My dear,To draw you near to me!

The jasmine and bignonia spillTheir balm about your windowsill;That sill where, when magnolia-white,In foliage mists, the moon hangs far,You lean with bright deep eyes of night,And hearken my guitar.It is the hourWhen from each flowerThe wind woos essences—Would, would you were the flower, love,And I the wind to breathe above,To breathe above and kiss,My love,To breathe above and kiss!

The jasmine and bignonia spillTheir balm about your windowsill;That sill where, when magnolia-white,In foliage mists, the moon hangs far,You lean with bright deep eyes of night,And hearken my guitar.

It is the hourWhen from each flowerThe wind woos essences—Would, would you were the flower, love,And I the wind to breathe above,To breathe above and kiss,My love,To breathe above and kiss!

It’s “Sweet, good-by,” when pennants flyAnd ships put out to sea;It ’s a loving kiss, and a tear or twoIn an eye of brown or an eye of blue:—And you’ll remember me,Sweetheart,And you’ll remember me.

It’s “Friend or foe?” when signals blowAnd ships sight ships at sea;It’s “Clear for action! and man the guns!”As the battle nears and the battle runs;—And you’ll remember me,Sweetheart,And you’ll remember me.

It’s deck to deck, and wrath and wreck,When ships meet ships at sea;It’s scream of shot and shriek of shell,And hull and turret a roaring hell;—And you’ll remember me,Sweetheart,And you’ll remember me.

It’s doom and death, and pause a breath,When ships go down at sea;It’s hate is over and love begins,And war is cruel whoever wins;—And you’ll remember me,Sweetheart,And you’ll remember me.

When roads are mired with ice and snow,And the air of morn is crisp with rime;When the holly hangs by the mistletoe,And bells ring in the Christmas-time:—It’s—Saddle, my Heart! and ride awayTo the sweet-faced girl with eyes of gray!Who waits with a smile for the gifts you bring—A man’s strong love and a wedding-ring—It’s—Saddle, my Heart, and ride!When vanes veer north and storm-winds blow,And the sun at noon is a blur o’erhead;When the holly hangs by the mistletoe,And the Christmas service is sung and said:—It’s—Come, O my Heart, and wait a while,Where the organ peals, in the altar aisle,For the gifts that the church now gives to you—A woman’s hand and a heart that’s true.It’s—Come, O my Heart, and wait!When rooms gleam warm with the fire’s glow,And the sleet raps sharp on the window-pane:When the holly hangs by the mistletoe,And Christmas revels begin again:—It’s—Home, O my Heart, and love, at last!And her happy breast to your own held fast:A song to sing and a tale to tell,A good-night kiss and all is well.It’s—Home, O my Heart, and love!

When vanes veer north and storm-winds blow,And the sun at noon is a blur o’erhead;When the holly hangs by the mistletoe,And the Christmas service is sung and said:—It’s—Come, O my Heart, and wait a while,Where the organ peals, in the altar aisle,For the gifts that the church now gives to you—A woman’s hand and a heart that’s true.It’s—Come, O my Heart, and wait!

When rooms gleam warm with the fire’s glow,And the sleet raps sharp on the window-pane:When the holly hangs by the mistletoe,And Christmas revels begin again:—It’s—Home, O my Heart, and love, at last!And her happy breast to your own held fast:A song to sing and a tale to tell,A good-night kiss and all is well.It’s—Home, O my Heart, and love!

Sing, Hey, when the time rolls round this way,And bells peal out,’Tis Christmas Day!The world is better then by half,For joy, for joy:In a little while you will see it laugh—For a song’s to sing and a glass to quaff,My boy; my boy.So here ’s to the man who never says nay!—Sing, Hey, a song of Christmas Day!

Sing, Ho, when roofs are white with snow,And homes are hung with mistletoe:Old Earth is not half bad, I wis—What cheer! what cheer!How it ever seemed sad the wonder is—With a gift to give and a girl to kiss,My dear; my dear.So here ’s to the girl who never says no!Sing, Ho, a song of the mistletoe!

No thing in the world to the heart seems wrongWhen the soul of a man walks out with song;Wherever they go, glad hand in hand,And glove in glove,The round of the land is rainbow-spanned,And the meaning of life they understandIs love; is love.Let the heart be open, the soul be strong,And life will be glad as a Christmas song.

When love delays, when love delays and joySteals like a shadow o’er the happy hills;When hope is gone; and no to-morrow fillsThe promise of to-day; still I employMy soul with thoughts of thee,Who ’rt not for me, for me!When love delays, when love delays and songAches at wild lips, unutterable, as the soundOf ocean strives, within the shell’s mouth bound;And hope is gone for ever, slain of wrong;Still in my heart one wordKeeps calling like a bird.When love delays, when love delays and sleepSeals tired eyelids,—like the sound of foam,Heard ’mid familiar flowers far from home,—When hope lies dead; in dreams, in dreams I keepFeeling thy lips’ sweet touch,—And, oh! it is too much!When love delays, when love delays and sorrowDrinks her own tears that add but to her thirst;When song and sleep and love itself seem curst,And hope lies dead; still, still I dream to-morrowWill bring some word of cheerFrom thee who art not here.Will love delay, will love delay till deathHath sealed these lips and locked these eyes in night?Till unto love and hate indifferent quiteThis form shall lie? Then wilt thou, wild of breath,Bend down and kiss me thereWhen I no more shall care?

When love delays, when love delays and songAches at wild lips, unutterable, as the soundOf ocean strives, within the shell’s mouth bound;And hope is gone for ever, slain of wrong;Still in my heart one wordKeeps calling like a bird.

When love delays, when love delays and sleepSeals tired eyelids,—like the sound of foam,Heard ’mid familiar flowers far from home,—When hope lies dead; in dreams, in dreams I keepFeeling thy lips’ sweet touch,—And, oh! it is too much!

When love delays, when love delays and sorrowDrinks her own tears that add but to her thirst;When song and sleep and love itself seem curst,And hope lies dead; still, still I dream to-morrowWill bring some word of cheerFrom thee who art not here.

Will love delay, will love delay till deathHath sealed these lips and locked these eyes in night?Till unto love and hate indifferent quiteThis form shall lie? Then wilt thou, wild of breath,Bend down and kiss me thereWhen I no more shall care?

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