Part 37
The little rose is dust, my dear; The elfin wind is gone That sang a song of silver words And cooled our hearts with dawn.
And what is left to hope, my dear, Or what is left to say? The rose, the little wind and you Have gone so far away.
Grace Hazard Conkling [18
DIRGE
Never the nightingale, Oh, my dear, Never again the lark Thou wilt hear; Though dusk and the morning still Tap at thy window-sill, Though ever love call and call Thou wilt not hear at all, My dear, my dear.
Adelaide Crapsey [1878-1914]
THE LITTLE RED RIBBON
The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose! The summertime comes, and the summertime goes - And never a blossom in all of the land As white as the gleam of her beckoning hand!
The long winter months, and the glare of the snows; The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose! And never a glimmer of sun in the skies As bright as the light of her glorious eyes!
Dreams only are true: but they fade and are gone - For her face is not here when I waken at dawn; The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose Mine only; hers only the dream and repose.
I am weary of waiting, and weary of tears, And my heart wearies, too, all these desolate years, Moaning over the one only song that it knows, - The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose!
James Whitcomb Riley [1849-1916]
THE ROSARY
The hours I spent with thee, dear heart, Are as a string of pearls to me; I count them over, every one apart, My rosary.
Each hour a pearl, each pearl a prayer, To still a heart in absence wrung; I tell each bead unto the end and there A cross is hung.
Oh memories that bless - and burn! Oh barren gain - and bitter loss! I kiss each bead, and strive at last to learn To kiss the cross, Sweetheart, To kiss the cross.
Robert Cameron Rogers [1862-1912]
LOVE'S FULFILMENT
"MY TRUE-LOVE HATH MY HEART" From the "Arcadia"
My true-love hath my heart, and I have his, By just exchange one for the other given: I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss; There never was a better bargain driven; His heart in me keeps him and me in one, My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides: He loves my heart, for once it was his own, I cherish his, because in me it bides.
His heart his wound received from my sight; My heart was wounded from his wounded heart; For as from me, on him his hurt did light, So still me thought in me his heart did smart: Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss, My true love hath my heart, and I have his.
Philip Sidney [1554-1586]
SONG
O sweet delight, O more than human bliss, With her to live that ever loving is! To hear her speak whose words are so well placed That she by them, as they in her are graced: Those looks to view that feast the viewer's eye, How blest is he that may so live and die!
Such love as this the Golden Times did know, When all did reap, yet none took care to sow; Such love as this an endless summer makes, And all distaste from frail affection takes. So loved, so blest, in my beloved am I: Which till their eyes ache, let iron men envy!
Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]
THE GOOD-MORROW
I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I Did, till we loved? were we not weaned till then? But sucked on country pleasures, childishly? Or snored we in the Seven Sleepers' den? 'Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be; If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee.
And now good-morrow to our waking souls, Which watch not one another out of fear; For love all love of other sights controls, And makes one little room an everywhere. Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone; Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown, Let us possess one world; each hath one, and is one.
My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears, And true plain hearts do in the faces rest; Where can we find two fitter hemispheres Without sharp north, without declining west? Whatever dies, was not mixed equally; If our two loves be one, or thou and I Love just alike in all, none of these loves can die.
John Donne [1573-1631]
"THERE'S GOWD IN THE BREAST"
There's gowd in the breast of the primrose pale, An' siller in every blossom; There's riches galore in the breeze of the vale, And health in the wild wood's bosom. Then come, my love, at the hour of joy, When warbling birds sing o'er us; Sweet nature for us has no alloy, And the world is all before us.
The courtier joys in hustle and power, The soldier in war-steeds bounding, The miser in hoards of treasured ore, The proud in their pomp surrounding: But we hae yon heaven sae bonnie and blue, And laverocks skimming o'er us; The breezes of health, and the valleys of dew - Oh, the world is all before us!
James Hogg [1770-1835]
THE BEGGAR MAID
Her arms across her breast she laid; She was more fair than words can say: Bare footed came the beggar maid Before the king Cophetua. In robe and crown the king stepped down, To meet and greet her on her way; "It is no wonder," said the lords, "She is more beautiful than day."
As shines the moon in clouded skies, She in her poor attire was seen: One praised her ankles, one her eyes, One her dark hair and lovesome mien. So sweet a face, such angel grace, In all that land had never been: Cophetua sware a royal oath: "This beggar maid shall be my queen!"
Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]
REFUGE
Twilight, a timid fawn, went glimmering by, And Night, the dark-blue hunter, followed fast, Ceaseless pursuit and flight were in the sky, But the long chase had ceased for us at last.
We watched together while the driven fawn Hid in the golden thicket of the day. We, from whose hearts pursuit and flight were gone, Knew on the hunter's breast her refuge lay.
A. E. (George William Russell) [1867-1935]
AT SUNSET
Clasp her and hold her and love her, Here in the arching green Of boughs that bend above her With belts of blue between.
Clasp her and hold her and love her, Swift! Ere the splendor dies; The blue grows black above her, The earth in shadow lies.
Flowers of dream enfold her. Soft! Let me bend above, Clasp her and love her and hold her, Clasp her and hold and love.
Louis V. Ledoux [1880-
"ONE MORNING, OH! SO EARLY"
One morning, oh! so early, my beloved, my beloved, All the birds were singing blithely, as if never they would cease; 'Twas a thrush sang in my garden, "Hear the story, hear the story!" And the lark sang, "Give us glory!" And the dove said, "Give us peace!"
Then I hearkened, oh! so early, my beloved, my beloved, To that murmur from the woodland of the dove, my dear, the dove; When the nightingale came after, "Give us fame to sweeten duty!" When the wren sang, "Give us beauty!" She made answer, "Give us love!"
Sweet is spring, and sweet the morning, my beloved, my beloved; Now for us doth spring, doth morning, wait upon the year's increase, And my prayer goes up, "Oh, give us, crowned in youth with marriage glory, Give for all our life's dear story, Give us love, and give us peace!"
Jean Ingelow [1820-1897]
ACROSS THE DOOR
The fiddles were playing and playing, The couples were out on the floor; From converse and dancing he drew me, And across the door.
Ah! strange were the dim, wide meadows, And strange was the cloud-strewn sky, And strange in the meadows the corncrakes, And they making cry!
The hawthorn bloom was by us, Around us the breath of the south. White hawthorn, strange in the night-time - His kiss on my mouth!
Padraic Colum [1881-
MAY MARGARET
If you be that May Margaret That lived on Kendal Green, Then where's that sunny hair of yours That crowned you like a queen? That sunny hair is dim, lad, They said was like a crown - The red gold turned to gray, lad, The night a ship went down.
If you be yet May Margaret, May Margaret now as then, Then where's that bonny smile of yours That broke the hearts of men? The bonny smile is wan, lad, That once was glad as day - And oh! 'tis weary smiling To keep the tears away.
If you be that May Margaret, As yet you swear to me, Then where's that proud, cold heart of yours That sent your love to sea? Ah, me! that heart is broken, The proud, cold heart has bled For one light word outspoken, For all the love unsaid.
Then Margaret, my Margaret, If all you say be true, Your hair is yet the sunniest gold, Your eyes the sweetest blue. And dearer yet and fairer yet For all the coming years - The fairer for the waiting, The dearer for the tears!
Theophile Marzials [1850-
RONDEL
Kissing her hair, I sat against her feet, Wove and unwove it, wound and found it sweet; Made fast therewith her hands, drew down her eyes, Deep as deep flowers and dreamy like dim skies; With her own tresses bound and found her fair, Kissing her hair.
Sleep were no sweeter than her face to me, Sleep of cold sea-bloom under the cold sea; What pain could get between my face and hers? What new sweet thing would love not relish worse? Unless, perhaps, white death had kissed me there, Kissing her hair.
Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]
A SPRING JOURNEY
We journeyed through broad woodland ways, My Love and I. The maples set the shining fields ablaze. The blue May sky Brought to us its great Spring surprise; While we saw all things through each other's eyes.
And sometimes from a steep hillside Shone fair and bright The shadhush, like a young June bride, Fresh clothed in white. Sometimes came glimpses glad of the blue sea; But I smiled only on my Love; he smiled on me.
The violets made a field one mass of blue - Even bluer than the sky; The little brook took on that color too, And sang more merrily. "Your dress is blue," he laughing said. "Your eyes," My heart sang, "sweeter than the bending skies."
We spoke of poets dead so long ago, And their wise words; We glanced at apple-trees, like drifted snow; We watched the nesting birds, - Only a moment! Ah, how short the day! Yet all the winters cannot blow its sweetness quite away.
Alice Freeman Palmer [1855-1902]
THE BROOKSIDE
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 heart Was 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 heart Was 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 heart Was 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 hearts Was all the sound we heard.
Richard Monckton Milnes [1809-1885]
SONG
For me the jasmine buds unfold And silver daisies star the lea, The crocus hoards the sunset gold, And the wild rose breathes for me. I feel the sap through the bough returning, I share the skylark's transport fine, I know the fountain's wayward yearning; I love, and the world is mine!
I love, and thoughts that sometime grieved, Still well remembered, grieve not me; From all that darkened and deceived Upsoars my spirit free. For soft the hours repeat one story, Sings the sea one strain divine, My clouds arise all flushed with glory; I love, and the world is mine!
Florence Earle Coates [1850-1927]
WHAT MY LOVER SAID
By the merest chance, in the twilight gloom, In the orchard path he met me; In the tall, wet grass, with its faint perfume, And I tried to pass, but he made no room, Oh, I tried, but he would not let me. So I stood and blushed till the grass grew red, With my face bent down above it, While he took my hand as he whispering said - (How the clover lifted each pink, sweet head, To listen to all that my lover said; Oh, the clover in bloom, I love it!)
In the high, wet grass went the path to hide, And the low, wet leaves hung over; But I could not pass upon either side, For I found myself, when I vainly tried, In the arms of my steadfast lover. And he held me there and he raised my head, While he closed the path before me, And he looked down into my eyes and said - (How the leaves bent down from the boughs o'erhead To listen to all that my lover said, Oh, the leaves hanging lowly o'er me!)
Had he moved aside but a little way, I could surely then have passed him; And he knew I never could wish to stay, And would not have heard what he had to say, Could I only aside have cast him. It was almost dark, and the moments sped, And the searching night wind found us, But he drew me nearer and softly said - (How the pure, sweet wind grew still, instead, To listen to all that my lover said; Oh, the whispering wind around us!)
I am sure he knew when he held me fast, That I must be all unwilling; For I tried to go, and I would have passed, As the night was come with its dew, at last, And the sky with its stars was filling. But he clasped me close when I would have fled, And he made me hear his story, And his soul came out from his lips and said - (How the stars crept out where the white moon led, To listen to all that my lover said; Oh, the moon and the stars in glory!)
I know that the grass and the leaves will not tell, And I'm sure that the wind, precious rover, Will carry my secret so safely and well That no being shall ever discover One word of the many that rapidly fell From the soul-speaking lips of my lover; And the moon and the stars that looked over Shall never reveal what a fairy-like spell They wove round about us that night in the dell, In the path through the dew-laden clover, Nor echo the whispers that made my heart swell As they fell from the lips of my lover.
Homer Greene [1853-
MAY-MUSIC
Oh! lose the winter from thine heart, the darkness from thine eyes, And from the low hearth-chair of dreams, my Love-o'-May, arise; And let the maidens robe thee like a white white-lilac tree, Oh! hear the call of Spring, fair Soul, - and wilt thou come with me?
Even so, and even so! Whither thou goest, I will go. I will follow thee.
Then wilt thou see the orange trees star-flowering over Spain, Or arched and mounded Kaiser-towns that molder mid Almain, Or through the cypress-gardens go of magic Italy? Oh East or West or South or North, say, wilt thou come with me?
Even so, or even so! Whither thou goest, I will go. I will follow thee.
But wilt thou farther come with me through hawthorn red and white Until we find the wall that hides the Land of Heart's Delight? The gates all carved with olden things are strange and dread to see: But I will lift thee through, fair Soul. Arise and come with me!
Even so, Love, even so! Whither thou goest, I will go! Lo, I follow thee.
Rachel Annand Taylor [18 -
SONG
Flame at the core of the world, And flame in the red rose-tree; The one is the fire of the ancient spheres, The other is Junes to be; And, oh, there's a flame that is both their flames Here at the heart of me!
As strong as the fires of stars, As the prophet rose-tree true, The fire of my life is tender and wild, Its beauty is old and new; For out of the infinite past it came With the love in the eyes of you!
Arthur Upson [1877-1908]
A MEMORY
The night walked down the sky With the moon in her hand; By the light of that yellow lantern I saw you stand.
The hair that swept your shoulders Was yellow, too, Your feet as they touched the grasses Shamed the dew.
The Night wore all her jewels, And you wore none, But your gown had the odor of lilies Drenched with sun.
And never was Eve of the Garden Or Mary the Maid More pure than you as you stood there Bold, yet afraid.
And the sleeping birds woke, trembling, And the folded flowers were aware, And my senses were faint with the fragrant Gold of your hair.
And our lips found ways of speaking What words cannot say, Till a hundred nests gave music, And the East was gray.
Frederic Lawrence Knowles [1869-1905]
LOVE TRIUMPHANT
Helen's lips are drifting dust; Ilion is consumed with rust; All the galleons of Greece Drink the ocean's dreamless peace; Lost was Solomon's purple show Restless centuries ago; Stately empires wax and wane - Babylon, Barbary, and Spain; - Only one thing, undefaced, Lasts, though all the worlds lie waste And the heavens are overturned. - Dear, how long ago we learned!
There's a sight that blinds the sun, Sound that lives when sounds are done, Music that rebukes the birds, Language lovelier than words, Hue and scent that shame the rose, Wine no earthly vineyard knows, Silence stiller than the shore Swept by Charon's stealthy oar, Ocean more divinely free Than Pacific's boundless sea, - Ye who love have learned it true. - Dear, how long ago we knew!
Frederic Lawrence Knowles [1869-1905]
LINES
Love within the lover's breast Burns like Hesper in the West, O'er the ashes of the sun, Till the day and night are done; Then, when dawn drives up his car - Lo! it is the morning star.
Love! thy love pours down on mine, As the sunlight on the vine, As the snow rill on the vale, As the salt breeze on the sail; As the song unto the bird On my lips thy name is heard.
As a dewdrop on the rose In thy heart my passion glows; As a skylark to the sky, Up into thy breast I fly; As a sea-shell of the sea Ever shall I sing of thee.
George Meredith [1828-1909]
LOVE AMONG THE RUINS
Where the quiet-colored end of evening smiles Miles and miles On the solitary pastures where our sheep Half-asleep Tinkle homeward through the twilight, stray or stop As they crop - Was the site once of a city great and gay, (So they say) Of our country's very capital, its prince Ages since Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far Peace or war.
Now, - the country does not even boast a tree, As you see, To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills From the hills Intersect and give a name to (else they run Into one), Where the domed and daring palace shot its spires Up like fires O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall Bounding all, Made of marble, men might march on nor be pressed, Twelve abreast.
And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass Never was! Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'erspreads And embeds Every vestige of the city, guessed alone, Stock or stone - Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe Long ago; Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame Struck them tame; And that glory and that shame alike, the gold Bought and sold.
Now, - the single little turret that remains On the plains, By the caper overrooted, by the gourd Overscored, While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winks Through the chinks - Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time Sprang sublime, And a burning ring, all round, the chariots traced As they raced, And the monarch and his minions and his dames Viewed the games.
And I know, while thus the quiet-colored eve Smiles to leave To their folding, all our many-tinkling fleece In such peace, And the slopes and rills in undistinguished gray Melt away - That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair Waits me there In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul For the goal, When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb, Till I come.
But he looked upon the city, every side, Far and wide, All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades' Colonnades, All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts, - and then, All the men! When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand, Either hand On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace Of my face, Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech Each on each.
In one year they sent a million fighters forth South and North, And they built their gods a brazen pillar high As the sky, Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force - Gold, of course. Oh heart! oh blood that freezes, blood that burns! Earth's returns For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin! Shut them in, With their triumphs and their glories and the rest! Love is best!
Robert Browning [1812-1889]
EARL MERTOUN'S SONG From "The Blot in the 'Scutcheon"
There's a woman like a dewdrop, she's so purer than the purest; And her noble heart's the noblest, yes, and her sure faith's the surest: And her eyes are dark and humid, like the depth on depth of luster Hid i' the harebell, while her tresses, sunnier than the wild-grape cluster, Gush in golden-tinted plenty down her neck's rose-misted marble: Then her voice's music . . . call it the well's bubbling, the bird's warble! And this woman says, "My days were sunless and my nights were moonless, Parched the pleasant April herbage, and the lark's heart's outbreak tuneless, If you loved me not!" And I who (ah, for words of flame!) adore her, Who am mad to lay my spirit prostrate palpably before her - I may enter at her portal soon, as now her lattice takes me, And by noontide as by midnight make her mine, as hers she makes me!
Robert Browning [1812-1889]
MEETING AT NIGHT