Part 6
Girl of the blue eye, Love me! Love me! Girl of the dew eye, Love me! Worlds hang for lamps on high; And thought's world lives in thy Lustrous and tender eye - Oh, girl of the blue eye, love me!
Girl of the swan's neck, Love me! Love me! Girl of the swan's neck, Love me! As a marble Greek doth grow To his steed's back of snow, Thy white neck sits thy shoulder so, - Oh, girl of the swan's neck, love me!
Girl of the low voice, Love me! Love me! Girl of the sweet voice, Love me! Like the echo of a bell, - Like the bubbling of a well, - Sweeter! Love within doth dwell, - Oh, girl of the low voice, love me!
Martin MacDermott [1823-1905]
THE DAUGHTER OF MENDOZA
O lend to me, sweet nightingale, Your music by the fountain, And lend to me your cadences, O river of the mountain! That I may sing my gay brunette, A diamond spark in coral set, Gem for a prince's coronet - The daughter of Mendoza.
How brilliant is the morning star, The evening star how tender, - The light of both is in her eyes, Their softness and their splendor. But for the lash that shades their light They were too dazzling for the sight, And when she shuts them, all is night - The daughter of Mendoza.
O ever bright and beauteous one, Bewildering and beguiling, The lute is in thy silvery tones, The rainbow in thy smiling; And thine, is, too, o'er hill and dell, The bounding of the young gazelle, The arrow's flight and ocean's swell - Sweet daughter of Mendoza!
What though, perchance, we no more meet, - What though too soon we sever? Thy form will float like emerald light Before my vision ever. For who can see and then forget The glories of my gay brunette - Thou art too bright a star to set, Sweet daughter of Mendoza!
Mirabeau Bonaparte Lamar [1798-1859]
"IF SHE BE MADE OF WHITE AND RED"
If she be made of white and red, As all transcendent beauty shows; If heaven be blue above her head, And earth be golden, as she goes: Nay, then thy deftest words restrain; Tell not that beauty, it is vain.
If she be filled with love and scorn, As all divinest natures are; If 'twixt her lips such words are born, As can but Heaven or Hell confer: Bid Love be still, nor ever speak, Lest he his own rejection seek.
Herbert P. Horne [1864-
THE LOVER'S SONG
Lend me thy fillet, Love! I would no longer see: Cover mine eyelids close awhile, And make me blind like thee.
Then might I pass her sunny face, And know not it was fair; Then might I hear her voice, nor guess Her starry eyes were there.
Ah! banished so from stars and sun - Why need it be my fate? If only she might dream me good And wise, and be my mate!
Lend her thy fillet, Love! Let her no longer see: If there is hope for me at all, She must be blind like thee.
Edward Rowland Sill [1841-1887]
"WHEN FIRST I SAW HER"
When first I saw her, at the stroke The heart of nature in me spoke; The very landscape smiled more sweet, Lit by her eyes, pressed by her feet; She made the stars of heaven more bright By sleeping under them at night; And fairer made the flowers of May By being lovelier than they.
O, soft, soft, where the sunshine spread, Dark in the grass I laid my head; And let the lights of earth depart To find her image in my heart; Then through my being came and went Tones of some heavenly instrument, As if where its blind motions roll The world should wake and be a soul.
George Edward Woodberry [1855-1930]
MY APRIL LADY
When down the stair at morning The sunbeams round her float, Sweet rivulets of laughter Are rippling in her throat; The gladness of her greeting Is gold without alloy; And in the morning sunlight I think her name is Joy.
When in the evening twilight The quiet book-room lies, We read the sad old ballads, While from her hidden eyes The tears are falling, falling, That give her heart relief; And in the evening twilight, I think her name is Grief.
My little April lady, Of sunshine and of showers She weaves the old spring magic, And breaks my heart in flowers! But when her moods are ended, She nestles like a dove; Then, by the pain and rapture, I know her name is Love.
Henry Van Dyke [1852-1933]
THE MILKMAID A New Song To An Old Tune
Across the grass I see her pass; She comes with tripping pace, - A maid I know, - and March winds blow Her hair across her face; - With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine.
The March winds blow. I watch her go: Her eye is brown and clear; Her cheek is brown, and soft as down, (To those who see it near!) - With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine.
What has she not that those have got, - The dames that walk in silk! If she undo her kerchief blue, Her neck is white as milk. With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine.
Let those who will be proud and chill! For me, from June to June, My Dolly's words are sweet as curds - Her laugh is like a tune; - With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine.
Break, break to hear, O crocus-spear! O tall Lent-lilies flame! There'll be a bride at Easter-tide, And Dolly is her name. With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine.
Austin Dobson [1840-1921]
SONG
This peach is pink with such a pink As suits the peach divinely; The cunning color rarely spread Fades to the yellow finely; But where to spy the truest pink Is in my Love's soft cheek, I think.
The snowdrop, child of windy March, Doth glory in her whiteness; Her golden neighbors, crocuses, Unenvious praise her brightness! But I do know where, out of sight, My sweetheart keeps a warmer white.
Norman Gale [1862-
IN FEBRUARY
My Lady's birthday crowns the growing year; A flower of Spring before the Spring is here; To sing of her and this fair day to keep The very Loves forsake their Winter sleep; Where'er she goes their circling wings they spread, And shower celestial roses o'er her head. I, too, would chant her worth and dare to raise A hymn to what's beyond immortal praise. Go, little verse, and lay in vesture meet Of poesy, my homage at her feet.
Henry Simpson [1868-
"LOVE, I MARVEL WHAT YOU ARE"
Love, I marvel what you are! Heaven in a pearl of dew, Lilies hearted with a star - All are you.
Spring along your forehead shines And the summer blooms your breast. Graces of autumnal vines Round you rest.
Birds about a limpid rose Making song and light of wing While the warm wind sunny blows, - So you sing.
Darling, if the little dust, That I know is merely I, Have availed to win your trust, Let me die.
Trumbull Stickney [1874-1904]
BALLADE OF MY LADY'S BEAUTY
Squire Adam had two wives, they say, Two wives had he for his delight; He kissed and clypt them all the day, And clypt and kissed them all the night. Now Eve like ocean foam was white, And Lilith, roses dipped in wine, But though they were a goodly sight, No lady is so fair as mine.
To Venus some folk tribute pay, And Queen of Beauty she is hight, And Sainte Marie the world doth sway, In cerule napery bedight. My wonderment these twain invite, Their comeliness it is divine; And yet I say in their despite, No lady is so fair as mine.
Dame Helen caused a grievous fray, For love of her brave men did fight, The eyes of her made sages fey And put their hearts in woeful plight. To her no rhymes will I indite, For her no garlands will I twine; Though she be made of flowers and light, No lady is so fair as mine.
L'ENVOI Prince Eros, Lord of lovely might, Who on Olympus doth recline, Do I not tell the truth aright? No lady is so fair as mine.
Joyce Kilmer [1886-1918]
URSULA
I see her in the festal warmth to-night, Her rest all grace, her motion all delight. Endowed with all the woman's arts that please, In her soft gown she seems a thing of ease, Whom sorrow may not reach or evil blight.
To-morrow she will toil from floor to floor To smile upon the unreplying poor, To stay the tears of widows, and to be Confessor to men's erring hearts . . . ah me! She knows not I am beggar at her door.
Robert Underwood Johnson [1853-
VILLANELLE OF HIS LADY'S TREASURES
I took her dainty eyes, as well As silken tendrils of her hair: And so I made a Villanelle!
I took her voice, a silver bell, As clear as song, as soft as prayer; I took her dainty eyes as well.
It may be, said I, who can tell, These things shall be my less despair? And so I made a Villanelle!
I took her whiteness virginal And from her cheeks two roses rare: I took her dainty eyes as well.
I said: "It may be possible Her image from my heart to tear!" And so I made a Villanelle!
I stole her laugh, most musical: I wrought it in with artful care; I took her dainty eyes as well; And so I made a Villanelle.
Ernest Dowson [1867-1900]
SONG
Love, by that loosened hair Well now I know Where the lost Lilith went So long ago.
Love, by those starry eyes I understand How the sea maidens lure Mortals from land.
Love, by that welling laugh Joy claims his own Sea-born and wind-wayward Child of the sun.
Bliss Carman [1861-1929]
SONG
O, like a queen's her happy tread, And like a queen's her golden head! But O, at last, when all is said, Her woman's heart for me!
We wandered where the river gleamed 'Neath oaks that mused and pines that dreamed, A wild thing of the woods she seemed, So proud, and pure, and free!
All heaven drew nigh to hear her sing, When from her lips her soul took wing; The oaks forgot their pondering, The pines their reverie.
And O, her happy, queenly tread, And O, her queenly golden head! But O, her heart, when all is said, Her woman's heart for me!
William Watson [1858-1935]
ANY LOVER, ANY LASS
Why are her eyes so bright, so bright, Why do her lips control The kisses of a summer night, When I would love her soul?
God set her brave eyes wide apart And painted them with fire; They stir the ashes of my heart To embers of desire.
Her lips so tenderly are wrought In so divine a shape, That I am servant to my thought And can no wise escape.
Her body is a flower, her hair About her neck doth play; I find her colors everywhere, They are the pride of day.
Her little hands are soft, and when I see her fingers move I know in very truth that men Have died for less than love.
Ah, dear, live, lovely thing! my eyes Have sought her like a prayer; It is my better self that cries "Would she were not so fair!"
Would I might forfeit ecstasy And find a calmer place, Where I might undesirous see Her too desired face:
Nor find her eyes so bright, so bright, Nor hear her lips unroll Dream after dream the lifelong night, When I would love her soul.
Richard Middleton [1882-1911]
SONGS ASCENDING
Love has been sung a thousand ways - So let it be; The songs ascending in your praise Through all my days Are three.
Your cloud-white body first I sing; Your love was heaven's blue, And I, a bird, flew carolling In ring on ring Of you.
Your nearness is the second song; When God began to be, And bound you strongly, right or wrong, With his own thong, To me.
But oh, the song, eternal, high, That tops these two! - You live forever, you who die, I am not I But you.
Witter Bynner [1881-
SONG
"Oh! Love," they said, "is King of Kings, And Triumph is his crown. Earth fades in flame before his wings, And Sun and Moon bow down." - But that, I knew, would never do; And Heaven is all too high. So whenever I meet a Queen, I said, I will not catch her eye.
"Oh! Love," they said, and "Love," they said, "The gift of Love is this; A crown of thorns about thy head, And vinegar to thy kiss!" - But Tragedy is not for me; And I'm content to be gay. So whenever I spied a Tragic Lady, I went another way.
And so I never feared to see You wander down the street, Or come across the fields to me On ordinary feet. For what they'd never told me of, And what I never knew; It was that all the time, my love, Love would be merely you.
Rupert Brooke [1887-1915]
SONG
How do I love you? I do not know. Only because of you Gladly I go.
Only because of you Labor is sweet, And all the song of you Sings in my feet.
Only the thought of you Trembles and lies Just where the world begins - Under my eyes.
Irene Rutherford McLeod [1891-
TO. . . IN CHURCH
If I was drawn here from a distant place, 'Twas not to pray nor hear our friend's address, But, gazing once more on your winsome face, To worship there Ideal Loveliness. On that pure shrine that has too long ignored The gifts that once I brought so frequently I lay this votive offering, to record How sweet your quiet beauty seemed to me. Enchanting girl, my faith is not a thing By futile prayers and vapid psalm-singing To vent in crowded nave and public pew. My creed is simple: that the world is fair, And beauty the best thing to worship there, And I confess it by adoring you.
Alan Seeger [1888-1916]
AFTER TWO YEARS
She is all so slight And tender and white As a May morning. She walks without hood At dusk. It is good To hear her sing.
It is God's will That I shall love her still As He loves Mary. And night and day I will go forth to pray That she love me.
She is as gold Lovely, and far more cold. Do thou pray with me, For if I win grace To kiss twice her face God has done well to me.
Richard Aldington [1892-
PRAISE
Dear, they are praising your beauty, The grass and the sky: The sky in a silence of wonder, The grass in a sigh.
I too would sing for your praising, Dearest, had I Speech as the whispering grass, Or the silent sky.
These have an art for the praising Beauty so high. Sweet, you are praised in a silence, Sung in a sigh.
Seumas O'Sullivan [1879-
PLAINTS AND PROTESTATIONS
"FORGET NOT YET" The Lover Beseecheth His Mistress Not To Forget His Steadfast Faith And True Intent
Forget not yet the tried intent Of such a truth as I have meant: My great travail so gladly spent, Forget not yet!
Forget not yet when first began The weary life ye know, since when The suit, the service, none tell can; Forget not yet!
Forget not yet the great assays, The cruel wrong, the scornful ways, The painful patience in delays, Forget not yet!
Forget not! O, forget not this! - How long ago hath been, and is, The mind that never meant amiss - Forget not yet!
Forget not then thine own approved, The which so long hath thee so loved, Whose steadfast faith yet never moved: Forget not this!
Thomas Wyatt [1503?-1542]
FAWNIA From "Pandosto"
Ah! were she pitiful as she is fair, Or but as mild as she is seeming so, Then were my hopes greater than my despair, Then all the world were heaven, nothing woe.
Ah! were her heart relenting as her hand, That seems to melt even with the mildest touch, Then knew I where to seat me in a land Under wide heavens, but yet there is not such. So as she shows she seems the budding rose, Yet sweeter far than is an earthly flower; Sovereign of beauty, like the spray she grows; Compassed she is with thorns and cankered flower. Yet were she willing to be plucked and worn, She would be gathered, though she grew on thorn.
Ah! when she sings, all music else be still, For none must be compared to her note; Ne'er breathed such glee from Philomela's bill, Nor from the morning-singer's swelling throat. Ah! when she riseth from her blissful bed She comforts all the world as doth the sun, And at her sight the night's foul vapor's fled; When she is set the gladsome day is done. O glorious sun, imagine me the west, Shine in my arms, and set thou in my breast!
Robert Greene [1560?-1592]
THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE
Come live with me and be my Love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dales and fields, Or woods or steepy mountain yields.
And we will sit upon the rocks, And see the shepherds feed their flocks By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roses And a thousand fragrant posies; A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle.
A gown made of the finest wool Which from our pretty lambs we pull; Fair-lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold.
A belt of straw and ivy-buds With coral clasps and amber studs: And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me and be my Love.
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing For thy delight each May morning: If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me and be my Love.
Christopher Marlowe [1564-1593]
THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD
If all the world and love were young, And truth in every shepherd's tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee, and be thy Love.
But Time drives flocks from field to fold; When rivers rage and rocks grow cold; And Philomel becometh dumb; The rest complains of cares to come.
The flowers do fade, and wanton fields To wayward Winter reckoning yields: A honey tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, Soon break, soon wither, - soon forgotten, In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds, Thy coral clasps and amber studs, - All these in me no means can move To come to thee and be thy Love.
But could youth last, and love still breed, Had joys no date, nor age no need, Then these delights my mind might move To live with thee and be thy Love.
Walter Raleigh [1552?-1618]
"WRONG NOT, SWEET EMPRESS OF MY HEART"
Wrong not, sweet empress of my heart, The merit of true passion, With thinking that he feels no smart, That sues for no compassion.
Silence in love bewrays more woe Than words, though ne'er so witty: A beggar that is dumb, you know, May challenge double pity.
Then wrong not, dearest to my heart, My true, though secret passion; He smarteth most that hides his smart, And sues for no compassion.
Walter Raleigh [1552?-1618]
TO HIS COY LOVE
I pray thee, leave, love me no more, Call home the heart you gave me! I but in vain that saint adore That can but will not save me. These poor half-kisses kill me quite - Was ever man thus served: Amidst an ocean of delight For pleasure to be starved!
Show me no more those snowy breasts With azure riverets branched, Where, whilst mine eye with plenty feasts, Yet is my thirst not stanched; O Tantalus, thy pains ne'er tell! By me thou art prevented: 'Tis nothing to be plagued in Hell, But thus in Heaven tormented.
Clip me no more in those dear arms, Nor thy life's comfort call me, O these are but too powerful charms, And do but more enthral me! But see how patient I am grown In all this coil about thee: Come, nice thing, let my heart alone, I cannot live without thee!
Michael Drayton [1563-1631]
HER SACRED BOWER
Where she her sacred bower adorns, The rivers clearly flow, The groves and meadows swell with flowers, The winds all gently blow. Her sun-like beauty shines so fair, Her spring can never fade: Who then can blame the life that strives To harbor in her shade?
Her grace I sought, her love I wooed; Her love thought to obtain; No time, no toil, no vow, no faith, Her wished grace can gain. Yet truth can tell my heart is hers And her will I adore; And from that love when I depart, Let heaven view me no more!
Her roses with my prayers shall spring; And when her trees I praise, Their boughs shall blossom, mellow fruit Shall strew her pleasant ways. The words of hearty zeal have power High wonders to effect; O, why should then her princely ear My words or zeal neglect?
If she my faith misdeems, or worth, Woe worth my hapless fate! For though time can my truth reveal, That time will come too late. And who can glory in the worth That cannot yield him grace? Content in everything is not, Nor joy in every place.
But from her Bower of Joy since I Must now excluded be, And she will not relieve my cares, Which none can help but she; My comfort in her love shall dwell, Her love lodge in my breast, And though not in her bower, yet I Shall in her temple rest.
Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]
TO LESBIA After Catullus
My sweetest Lesbia, let us live and love, And though the sager sort our deeds reprove, Let us not weigh them. Heaven's great lamps do dive Into their west, and straight again revive: But soon as once set is our little light, Then must we sleep one ever-during night.
If all would lead their lives in love like me, Then bloody swords and armor should not be; No drum nor trumpet peaceful sleeps should move, Unless alarm came from the Camp of Love: But fools do live and waste their little light, And seek with pain their ever-during night.
When timely death my life and fortune ends, Let not my hearse be vexed with mourning friends; But let all lovers, rich in triumph, come And with sweet pastimes grace my happy tomb: And, Lesbia, close up thou my little light, And crown with love my ever-during night.
Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]
"LOVE ME OR NOT"