Chapter I: Will Not Let Thee Go (1)

I will not let thee go.
Ends all our month-long love in this?
Can it be summed up so,
Quit in a single kiss?
I will not let thee go.

I will not let thee go.
If thy words’ breath could scare thy deeds,
As the soft south can blow
And toss the feathered seeds,
Then might I let thee go.

I will not let thee go.
Had not the great sun seen, I might;
Or were he reckoned slow
To bring the false to light,
Then might I let thee go.

I will not let thee go.
The stars that crowd the summer skies
Have watched us so below
With all their million eyes,
I dare not let thee go.

I will not let thee go.
Have we not chid the changeful moon,
Now rising late, and now
Because she set too soon,
And shall I let thee go?

I will not let thee go.
Have not the young flowers been content,
Plucked ere their buds could blow,
To seal our sacrament?
I cannot let thee go.

I will not let thee go.
I hold thee by too many bands:
Thou sayest farewell, and lo!
I have thee by the hands,
And will not let thee go.

ROBERT BRIDGES.

LONG ARE THE HOURS.

Long are the hours the sun is above,
But when evening comes I go home to my love.

I’m away the daylight hours and more,
Yet she comes not down to open the door.

She does not meet me upon the stair,--
She sits in my chamber and waits for me there.

As I enter the room, she does not move:
I always walk straight up to my love;

And she lets me take my wonted place
At her side, and gaze in her dear, dead face.

There as I sit, from her head thrown back
Her hair falls straight in a shadow black.

Aching and hot as my tired eyes be,
She is all that I wish to see.

And in my wearied and toil-dinned ear,
She says all things that I wish to hear.

Dusky and duskier grows the room,
Yet I see her best in the darker gloom.

When the winter eves are early and cold,
The firelight hours are a dream of gold.

And so I sit here night by night,
In rest and enjoyment of love’s delight.

But a knock on the door, a step on the stair
Will startle, alas, my love from her chair.

If a stranger comes, she will not stay:
At the first alarm she is off and away.

And he wonders, my guest, usurping her throne,
That I sit so much by myself alone.

ROBERT BRIDGES.

APPARITIONS.

I.

Such a starved bank of moss
Till, that May morn,
Blue ran the flash across:
Violets were born!

II.

Sky--what a scowl of cloud
Till, near and far,
Ray on ray split the shroud:
Splendid, a star!

III.

World--how it walled about
Life with disgrace
Till God’s own smile came out:
That was thy face.

ROBERT BROWNING.

PORPHYRIA’S LOVER.

The rain set early in to-night,
The sullen wind was soon awake;
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
And did its worst to vex the lake.
I listened with heart fit to break,

When glided in Porphyria; straight
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
Which done, she rose, and from her form

Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
And laid her soiled gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
And, last, she sat down by my side
And called me. When no voice replied,

She put my arm about her waist,
And made her smooth, white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
And spread o’er all her yellow hair,--

Murmuring how she loved me,--she
Too weak for all her heart’s endeavour,
To set its struggling passion free
From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
And give herself to me for ever.

But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could to-night’s gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale
For love of her, and all in vain:
So, she was come through wind and rain.

Be sure I looked up at her eyes
Happy and proud; at last I knew
Porphyria worshipped me; surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
While I debated what to do.

That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,

And strangled her. No pain felt she;
I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
I warily oped her lids: again
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.

And I untightened next the tress
About her neck; her cheek once more
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:
I propped her head up as before.
Only this time my shoulder bore

Her head, which droops upon it still:
The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
That all it scorned at once is fled,
And I, its love, am gained instead!

Porphyria’s love: she guessed not how
Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
And all night long we have not stirred,
And yet God has not said a word.

ROBERT BROWNING.

ROBIN’S SONG.

WARWICKSHIRE, 16--.

Up, up, my heart! up, up, my heart,
This day was made for thee!
For soon the hawthorn spray shall part,
And thou a face shalt see
That comes, O heart, O foolish heart,
This way to gladden thee.

The grass shows fresher on the way
That soon her feet shall tread--
The last year’s leaflet curled and gray,
I could have sworn was dead,
Looks green, for lying in the way
I know her feet will tread.

What hand yon blossom-curtain stirs,
More light than errant air?
I know the touch--’tis hers, ’tis hers!
She parts the thicket there--
The flowerèd branch her coming stirs
Hath perfumed all the air.

The springs of all forgotten years
Are waked to life anew--
Up, up, my eyes, nor fill with tears
As tender as the dew--
I knew her not in all those years;
But life begins anew.

Up, up, my heart! up, up, my heart,
This day was made for thee!
Come, Wit, take on thy nimblest art,
And win Love’s victory--
What now? Where art thou, coward heart?
Thy hour is here--and She!

H. C. BUNNER.

THE HOUR OF SHADOWS.

Upon that quiet day that lies
Where forest branches screen the skies,
The spirit of the eve has laid
A deeper and a dreamier shade;
And winds that through the tree-tops blow
Wake not the silent gloom below.

Only the sound of far-off streams,
Faint as our dreams of childhood’s dreams,
Wandering in tangled pathways crost,
Like woodland truants strayed and lost,
Their faint, complaining echoes roam,
Threading the forest toward their home.

O brooks, I too have gone astray,
And left my comrade on the way--
Guide me through aisles where soft you moan,
To some sad spot you know alone,
Where only leaves and nestlings stir,
And I may dream, and dream of Her.

H. C. BUNNER.

CARNATIONS IN WINTER.

Your carmine flakes of bloom to-night
The fire of wintry sunsets hold;
Again in dreams you burn to light
A fair Canadian garden old.

The blue north summer over it
Is bland with long ethereal days;
The gleaming martins wheel and flit
Where breaks your sun down orient ways.

There, when the gradual twilight falls,
Through quietudes of dusk afar,
Hermit, antiphonal hermit calls
From hills below the first pale star.

Then, in your passionate love’s foredoom
Once more your spirit stirs the air,
And you are lifted through the gloom
To warm the coils of her dark hair.

BLISS CARMAN.

THE EAVESDROPPER.

In a still room at hush of dawn,
My Love and I lay side by side
And heard the roaming forest wind
Stir in the paling autumn-tide.

I watched her earth-brown eyes grow glad
Because the round day was so fair;
While memories of reluctant night
Lurked in the blue dusk of her hair.

Outside, a yellow maple-tree,
Shifting upon the silvery blue
With small innumerable sound,
Rustled to let the sunlight through.

The livelong day the elvish leaves
Danced with their shadows on the floor;
And the lost children of the wind
Went straying homeward by our door.

And all the swarthy afternoon
We watched the great deliberate sun
Walk through the crimsoned hazy world,
Counting his hilltops one by one.

Then as the purple twilight came
And touched the vines along our eaves,
Another shadow stood without
And gloomed the dancing of the leaves.

The silence fell on my Love’s lips;
Her great brown eyes were veiled and sad
With pondering some maze of dream,
Though all the splendid year was glad.

Restless and vague as a gray wind
Her heart had grown, she knew not why.
But hurrying to the open door,
Against the verge of western sky

I saw retreating on the hills,
Looming and sinister and black,
The stealthy figure swift and huge
Of One who strode and looked not back.

BLISS CARMAN.

THE IMPOSSIBLE SHE.

Far away hangs an apple that ripens on high
The latest-born child of old sun-blind July,
Till the summer’s warm kiss as he wooes overhead
Turns its sour heart to sweetness, its wan cheek to red.
But it is not for you, and it is not for me,
Nay, it is not for any who here may be;
For its dawning red sweetness,
That rounds to completeness
Grows moist for the lips that we never may see.

There’s a white rose leaf-cloistered in heavy noon-hush,
And no eyes but the stars tempt its pale face to blush,
In that wilderness garden where, shut from day’s beam,
Fall its fragrant white leaves, light as steps of a dream.
But it is not for you, and it is not for me,
Nay, it is not for any who here may be;
For it sleeps and then wakes
In dew-scented snow-flakes,
As a star for the dusk hair we never may see.

In a green golden valley there grows an elf-girl,
And her lip is red-ripe; and her soul, one rich pearl,
Yields once to one diver a treasure unpriced
As the wine of the Gods or the wine-blood of Christ.
But she is not for you, and she is not for me,
Nay she is not for any who here may be;
For her breast like a moon
Through the rosed air of June
Grows round for his hand whom we never may see.

HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER.

A DREAM SHAPE.

With moon-white hearts that held a gleam
I gathered wild flowers in a dream,
And shaped a woman, whose sweet blood
Was odour of the wildwood bud.

From dew, the starlight arrowed through,
I wrought a woman’s eyes of blue;
The lids, that on her eyeballs lay,
Were rose-pale petals of the May.

I took the music of the breeze,
And water whispering in the trees,
And shaped the soul that breathed below
A woman’s blossom breasts of snow.

Out of a rose-bud’s veins I drew
The fragrant crimsom beating through
The languid lips of her, whose kiss
Was as a poppy’s drowsiness.

Out of the moonlight and the air
I wrought the glory of her hair,
That o’er her eyes’ blue heaven lay
Like some gold cloud o’er dawn of day.

A shadow’s shadow in the glass
Of sleep, my spirit saw her pass;
And, thinking of it now, meseems
We only live within our dreams.

For in that time she was to me
More real than our reality;
More real than Earth, more real than I--
The unreal things that pass and die.

MADISON CAWEIN.

UNREQUITED.

Passion? not hers who fixed me with pure eyes--
One hand among the deep curls of her brow,
I drank the girlhood of her gaze with sighs:
She never sighed, nor gave me kiss or vow.

So have I seen a clear October pool,
Cold, liquid topaz set within the sear
Gold of the woodland, tremorless and cool,
Reflecting all the heartbreak of the year.

Sweetheart? not she whose voice was music-sweet,
Whose face loaned language to melodious prayer;
Sweetheart I called her.--When did she repeat
Sweet to one hope or heart to one despair!

So have I seen a glad flower’s fragrant head
Sung to and sung to by a longing bird,
And at the last, albeit the bird lay dead,
No blossom wilted, for it had not heard.

MADISON CAWEIN.

IN THE WOOD.

Through laughing leaves the sunlight comes,
Turning the green to gold;
The bee about the heather hums,
And the morning air is cold
Here on the breezy woodland side,
Where we two ride.

Through laughing leaves on golden hair,
The sunlight glances down,
And makes a halo round her there,
And crowns her with a crown
Queen of the sunrise and the sun,
As we ride on.

The wanton wind has kissed her face,--
His lips have left a rose,--
He found her cheek so sweet a place
For kisses, I suppose,--
He thought he’d leave a sign, that so
Others might know.

The path grows narrower as we ride
The green boughs close above,
And overhead, and either side,
The wild birds sing of Love:--
But ah, she is not listening
To what they sing!

Till I take up the wild bird’s song
And word by word unfold
Its meaning as we ride along,--
And when my tale is told,
I turn my eyes to hers again,--
And then,--and then,--

(The bridle path more narrow grows,
The leaves shut out the sun;--)
Where the wind’s lips left their one rose
My own leave more than one:--
While the leaves murmur up above,
And laugh for love.

This was the place;--you see the sky
Now ’twixt the branches bare;
About the path the dead leaves lie,
And songless is the air;--
All’s changed since then, for that you know
Was long ago.

Let us ride on! The wind is cold.--
Let us ride on--ride fast!--
’Tis winter, and we know of old
That love could never last
Without the summer and the sun!--
Let us ride on!

HERBERT E. CLARKE.

BIRDS AND LOVERS.

I.

O brown lark, loving cloud-land best
And sun-smit seas of sky,
Thee does a musical unrest
Drive to rise upward from thy nest
Far fathoms high.

II.

O fluid-fluting blackbird, keep
The midnight of thy wing
Close to my home where leaves grow deep,
Since where two lovers lie asleep
Thou lovest to sing.

MORTIMER COLLINS.

DAWN.

Dawn, with flusht foot upon the mountain tops,
Stands beckoning to the Sun-god’s golden car,
While on her high clear brow the morning star
Grows fainter, as the silver-misty copse
And rosy river-bend and village white
Feel the strong shafts of light.

The tide of dreams has reached its utter ebb;
The joy of Dawn is in my Lady’s eyes,
Where at her window with a half-surprise
She sees the meadows meshed with fairy web,
And hears the happy skylark, far above,
Singing, _I live! I love!_

MORTIMER COLLINS.

LOVE’S POWER.

The fire is smouldering while the daylight wanes;
Rain taps impatient on the window-panes;
The waves roll high, and the cold wind complains.
The wind complains.

Reluctant start the embers to a blaze;
Among the ashy drifts the red coal plays;
In fairy rings the circling smoke delays.
The smoke delays.

Ah, lonely life! it is the wind’s sad cry;
Ah, only life! calls Echo, floating by;
Ah, love is life! it is my heart’s reply.
My heart’s reply.

Burn low, ye fires that on the hearthstone play!
Beat out your life, O waves in dashing spray!
My heart chants not your monotone to-day.
Oh, not to-day!

I hear no dirge, I see no ashes gray--
Love! love! love! love! its rapture fills the day!
The winter brings to me the bloom of May.
The bloom of May.

LYDIA AVERY COONLEY.

LAST NIGHT MY LADY TALKED WITH ME.

Last night my lady talked with me,
As on a green hill I and she
Sat close, where erst alone I stood
Beneath the dusk-leaved ilex-wood.

The earth was gathered to her rest,
Sweet silence lay upon her breast,
Well-nigh asleep, save that she heard
The wandering waters’ silver word.

The sun had kissed the earth’s dark lips
That grow so ruddy ere he dips,
Wine-coloured to his golden rim,
As purple evening pours for him.

Low stooped his head, as he would drink,
Till out of sight we saw him sink,
And with his splendour in our eyes,
Full-orbed we watched the great moon rise.

Rose-tinged in the dim sky shone she
Like Venus from the opal sea,
So grew her glory in our sight,
Till in her face we saw love’s light,

Love’s light in hers, like flame on flame,--
Yea, very Love in presence came,
Between the fires of moon and sun,
He stood, like dawn ere night begun.

Clear-aureoled his golden head,
His eyes our burning hearts well read,
And in the sanctuary of my soul
I won of love the golden goal.

WALTER CRANE.

LOVE’S ARROWS.

I saw young Love make trial of his bow,
In May’s green garden where he shot his dart,
Nor recked if any nigh beheld his art,
But other eyes did mark him as I know;
For my sweet lady sate anear his throw,
And I with her, and joinèd heart to heart,
So that we might not feel the bitter smart
Love leaveth there when time doth force us go.

We heard Love’s arrows falling in the grass,
Or watched them quiver in the targe below;
Yet few to us came nigh, nor might they pass
Beyond our feet, which trembled when they came,
Whose hearts were not the quarry for his aim,
That in Love’s chase fell stricken long ago.

WALTER CRANE.

A LOVE SONG.

FROM THE FRENCH OF ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE.

Time with his jealous icy blast
Will wither all your charms, like sweet flowers past
And dead in winter’s tomb;
Till soft, red lips are kissless, and the joy
They now can give, tho’ now, alas, too coy,
Has perish’d with their bloom.

Yet when your eyes, veil’d in a cloud of tears,
Shall mourn the rigour of the fleeting years,
And see each grace depart,
When in the past, as in a stream, you gaze,
And seek the lovely form of other days,
Look rather in my heart;

There will your beauty flourish years untold,
There will my loyalty watch you as of old,
And keep you still the same;
Just as a golden lamp some holy maid
Might shelter with her hand, while thro’ the shade
She bears the trembling flame.

Oh, when Death smiling comes, as come he must,
And shatters our twin torches in the dust,
A stronger love shall bloom;
Then shall my last sweet resting-place be thine,
And your soft hand clasp’d tenderly in mine,
In our last bed, the tomb.

Or, rather, darling, let us fly away,
Just as upon some glorious autumn day
Two loving swans might rise,
And, still caressing, leave their wonted nest,
And seek for brighter lands, and climes more blest,
And fuller, deeper skies!

HARRY CURWEN.

THE PARTING HOUR.

Not yet, dear love, not yet: the sun is high;
You said last night, “At sunset I will go.”
Come to the garden, where, when blossoms die,
No word is spoken; it is better so:
Ah! bitter word, “Farewell.”

Hark how the birds sing sunny songs of spring!
Soon they will build, and work will silence them;
So we grow less light-hearted as years bring
Life’s grave responsibilities--and then
The bitter word “Farewell.”

The violets fret to fragrance ’neath your feet,
Heaven’s gold sunlight dreams aslant your hair:
No flower for me! your mouth is far more sweet.
Oh, let my lips forget, while lingering there,
Love’s bitter word “Farewell.”

* * * * *

Sunset already! have we sat so long?
The parting hour, and so much left unsaid!
The garden has grown silent--void of song,
Our sorrow shakes us with a sudden dread!
Ah! bitter word “Farewell.”

OLIVE CUSTANCE.

THE SUNDIAL.

’Tis an old dial, dark with many a stain;
In summer crowned with drifting orchard-bloom,
Tricked in the autumn with the yellow rain,
And white in winter like a marble tomb;

And round about its gray, time-eaten brow
Lean letters speak--a worn and shattered row;
_I am a Shade: a Shadow too arte thou:
I marke the Time: saye, Gossip, dost thou soe?_

Here would the ringdoves linger, head to head;
And here the snail a silver course would run,
Beating old Time; and here the peacock spread
His gold-green glory, shutting out the sun.

The tardy shade moved forward to the noon;
Betwixt the paths a dainty Beauty stept,
That swung a flower, and, smiling, hummed a tune,--
Before whose feet a barking spaniel leapt.

O’er her blue dress an endless blossom strayed,
About her tendril-curls the sunlight shone;
And round her train the tiger-lilies swayed,
Like courtiers bowing till the queen be gone.

She leaned upon the slab a little while,
Then drew a jewelled pencil from her zone,
Scribbled a something with a frolic smile,
Folded, inscribed, and niched it in the stone.

The shade slipped on, no swifter than the snail;
There came a second lady in the place,
Dove-eyed, dove-robed, and something wan and pale--
An inner beauty shining from her face.

She, as if listless with a lonely love,
Straying among the alleys with a book,--
Herrick or Herbert,--watched the circling dove,
And spied the tiny letter in the nook.

Then, like to one who confirmation found
Of some dread secret half accounted true,--
Who knew what hands and hearts the letter bound,
And argued loving commerce ’twixt the two,

She bent her fair young forehead on the stone,
The dark shade gloomed an instant on her head;
And ’twixt her taper fingers pearled and shone
The single tear that tear-worn eyes will shed.

The shade slipped onward to the falling gloom;
There came a soldier gallant in her stead,
Swinging a beaver with a swaling plume,
A ribboned love-lock rippling from his head;

Blue-eyed, frank-faced, with clear and open brow,
Scar-seamed a little, as the women love;
So kindly fronted that you marvel how
The frequent sword-hilt had so frayed his glove;

Who switched at Psyche plunging in the sun;
Uncrowned three lilies with a backward swinge;
And standing somewhat widely, like to one
More used to “Boot and Saddle” than to cringe

As courtiers do, but gentleman withal,
Took out the note; held it as one who feared
The fragile thing he held would slip and fall;
Read and re-read, pulling his tawny beard;

Kissed it, I think, and hid it in his breast;
Laughed softly in a flattered happy way,
Arranged the broidered baldrick on his chest,
And sauntered past, singing a roundelay.

* * * * *

The shade crept forward through the dying glow;
There came no more nor dame nor cavalier;
But for a little time the brass will show
A small gray spot--the record of a tear.

AUSTIN DOBSON.

SPRING SONG.

Herald of peace and joy,
Lone on the bough;
Minstrel without alloy.
What flutest thou?

Violet, hiding low,
Fragrant and shy,
What message bearest thou
Voiced in thy sigh?

Buds that unloose your hasp
Long cased in mail,
Wrest from grim Winter’s grasp,
Freed from his pale;

Brooklets, swift hurrying,
Purling your chime.
What is the theme ye sing
Endless as Time?

“We sing the sun,” they say,
“We sing the spring;
Love crowns our holyday,
Love is our king.”

E’en so the thought of Thee
Rapture doth bring,
Yielding delight to me
Dearer than spring;

Blither than robin’s strain,
Fairer than flowers;
Fresh as the vernal rain,
Bright as the hours.

Thy smile my sun, I ween,
Thine eyes my May:
All thy sweet grace, my Queen,
Fondly, I pray,

Grant me to keep and hold
Fast in love’s shrine,--
Spring may no joys unfold
Art thou not mine!

GEORGE H. ELLWANGER.

TO JESSIE’S DANCING FEET.

How, as a spider’s web is spun
With subtle grace and art,
Do thy light footsteps, every one,
Cross and recross my heart!
Now here, now there, and to and fro,
Their winding mazes turn;
Thy fairy feet so lightly go
They seem the earth to spurn.
Yet every step leaves there behind
A something, when you dance,
That serves to tangle up my mind
And all my soul entrance.

How, as the web the spiders spin
And wanton breezes blow,
Thy soft and filmy laces in
A swirl around thee flow!
The cobweb ’neath thy chin that’s crossed
Remains demurely put,
While those are ever whirled and tossed
That show thy saucy foot:
That show the silver grayness of
Thy stocking’s silken sheen,
And mesh of snowy skirts above
The silver that is seen.

How, as the spider from his web
Dangles in light suspense,
Do thy sweet measures’ flow and ebb
Sway my enraptured sense!
Thy flutt’ring lace, thy dainty airs,
Thy every charming pose--
There are not more alluring snares
To bind me with than those.
Swing on! Sway on! With easy grace
Thy witching steps repeat!
The love I dare not--to thy face--
I offer at thy feet.

W. D. ELLWANGER.

A LOVE SONG.

Oh, to think, oh, to think as I see her stand there
With the rose that I plucked in her glorious hair,
In the robe that I love.
So demure and so neat,
I am lord of her lips and her eyes and her feet.

Oh, to think, oh, to think when the last hedge is leapt,
When the blood is awakened that dreamingly slept,
I shall make her heart throb
In its cradle of lace,
As the lord of her hair and her breast and her face.

Oh, to think, oh, to think when our wedding-bells ring,
When our love’s at the summer but life’s at the spring,
I shall guard her asleep
As my hound guards her glove,
Being lord of her life and her heart and her love!

NORMAN R. GALE.

A SONG.

I will not say my true love’s eyes
Outshine the noblest star;
But in their depth of lustre lies
My peace, my truce, my war.

I will not say upon her neck
Is white to shame the snow;
For if her bosom hath a speck
I would not have it go.

My love is as a woman sweet,
And as a woman white;
Who’s more than this is more than meet
For me and my delight.

NORMAN R. GALE.

A NOCTURNE.

Keen winds of cloud and vaporous drift
Disrobe yon star, as ghosts that lift
A snowy curtain from its place,
To scan a pillowed beauty’s face.

They see her slumbering splendours lie
Bedded on blue unfathomed sky,
And swoon for love and deep delight,
And stillness falls on all the night.

RICHARD GARNETT.

VIOLETS.

Cold blows the wind against the hill,
And cold upon the plain;
I sit me by the bank, until
The violets come again.

Here sat we when the grass was set
With violets shining through,
And leafing branches spread a net
To hold a sky of blue.

The trumpet clamoured from the plain,
The cannon rent the sky;
I cried, O Love, come back again,
Before the violets die!

But they are dead upon the hill,
And he upon the plain;
I sit me by the bank, until
My violets come again.

RICHARD GARNETT.

A YEAR.

When the hot wasp hung in the grape last year,
And tendrils withered and leaves grew sear,
There was little to hope and nothing to fear,
And the smouldering autumn sank apace,
And my heart was hollow and cold and drear.

When the last gray moth that November brings
Had folded its sallow and sombre wings,
Like the tuneless voice of a child that sings,
A music arose in that desolate place,
A broken music of hopeless things.

But time went by with the month of snows,
And the pulse and tide of that music rose;
As a pain that fades is a pleasure that grows,
So hope sprang up with a heart of grace,
And love as a crocus-bud that blows.

And now I know when next autumn has dried
The sweet hot juice to the grape-skin’s side,
And the new wasps dart where the old ones died,
My heart will have rest in one luminous face,
And its longing and yearning be satisfied.

EDMUND WILLIAM GOSSE.

I’VE KISSED THEE, SWEETHEART.

FROM THE FRENCH OF THÉOPHILE DE VIAU.

I’ve kissed thee, sweetheart, in a dream at least,
And though the core of love is in me still,
This joy, that in my sense did softly thrill,
The ardour of my longing hath appeased,
And by this tender strife my spirit, eased,
Can laugh at that sweet theft against thy will,
And, half consoled, I soothe myself until
I find my heart from all its pain released.
My senses, hushed, begin to fall on sleep;
Slumber, for which two weary nights I weep,
Takes thy dear place at last within mine eyes;
And though so cold he is, as all men vow,
For me he breaks his natural icy guise,
And shows himself more warm and fond than thou.

EDMUND WILLIAM GOSSE.

COMPLAINT.

Men, women, call thee so and so;
I do not know.
Thou hast no name
For me, but in my heart a flame

Burns tireless, ’neath a silver vine;
And round entwine
Its purple girth
All things of fragrance and of worth.

Thou shout! thou burst of light! thou throb
Of pain! thou sob!
Thou like a bar
Of some sonata, heard from far

Through blue-hued veils! When in these wise,
To my soul’s eyes
Thy shape appears,
My aching hands are full of tears.

JOHN GRAY.

HEART’S DEMESNE.

Listen, bright lady, thy deep Pansie eyes
Made never answer when my eyes did pray,
Than with those quaintest looks of blank surprise.

But my lovelonging hath devised a way
To mock thy living image, from thy hair
To thy rose toes; and keep thee by alway.

My garden’s face is, oh! so maidly fair,
With limbs all tapering, and with hues all fresh;
Thine are the beauties all that flourish there.

Amaranth, fadeless, tells me of thy flesh.
Briar-rose knows thy cheek, the Pink thy pout,
Bunched kisses dangle from the Woodbine mesh.

I love to loll, when Daisy stars peep out,
And hear the music of my garden dell,
Hollyhock’s laughter and the Sunflower’s shout,--
And many whisper things I dare not tell.

JOHN GRAY.

IN THE EVENING.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF COUNTESS LARA.

I sit alone and watch the cinders glare,
Or hear the pine-logs crackling sharp and low.
I wait him still; he went not long ago,
Humming a tune, his cigarette aflare.

He was called out by some most grave affair;
His friends, on cards intent, would have it so;
Or some new singer’s style he fain would know,
Who with false graces mars a grand old air.

And for such things as these he stays away,
Till midnight passes, and, at one, the bell
Booms from the neighbouring church its single flight;

Then gaily he returns, and half in play
Kisses me lightly, asks if I am well,
And never dreams that I have wept all night.

G. A. GREENE.

WHEN THE LEAVES FALL IN AUTUMN.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF LORENZO STECCHETTI.

When the leaves fall in autumn, and you go
To seek the cross that marks my lonely grave,
In that far corner where they laid me low
The nodding wild-flowers o’er my bones shall wave.

Oh, pluck you then, to deck your golden hair,
The flowers born of my heart which blossom there:

They are the songs I dreamed, but ne’er have sung,
The words of love you heard not on my tongue.

G. A. GREENE.

“QUI SAIT AIMER, SAIT MOURIR.”

“I burn my soul away!”
So spake the Rose and smiled; “within my cup
All day the sunbeams fall in flame, all day
They drink my sweetness up!”

“I sigh my soul away!”
The Lily said; “all night the moonbeams pale
Steal round and round me, whispering in their play
An all too tender tale!”

“I give my soul away!”
The Violet said; “the West wind wanders on,
The North wind comes; I know not what they say,
And yet my soul is gone!”

O Poet, burn away
Thy fervent soul! fond Lover at the feet
Of her thou lovest, sigh! dear Christian, pray,
And let the world be sweet!

DORA GREENWELL.

SONG.

If love were like a thrush’s song,
Ah me! ah me!
I’d list his tale the whole day long,
Ah me!
I’d never know how time went by,
I’d never guess that time will die;
Rapt in that living ecstasy,
Ah me! ah me!
I’d list a glorious life along
If love were but a thrush’s song.

But love is fierce and love is fain,
Ah me! ah me!
Love has one bitter sweet refrain,
Ah me!
Love knows of anguish every tone,
Love knows of joy but hope alone,
Love knows of hope that hope is flown,
Ah me! ah me!
Love! poor fierce Love, by storm winds driven,
Love is earth’s vain desire for heaven,
Ah me!

A. STEPNEY GULSTON.

O KNIGHT, IF THOU A LADY HAST.

O knight, if thou a lady hast,
Gentle and loving, high and true,
Cling to her, live for her, die for her, too,
Swerve not from her while life shall last--
O knight, if thou a lady hast.

But if thou, knight, no lady hast,
Kind as courteous, fair as fond,
So grasp the joyless pilgrim’s wand,
Go high, go wide, go far and fast--
Till thou e’en such a lady hast.

GERTRUDE HALL.

AT LAST.

When I shall stand before the judgment throne,
At that last hour when all things pass away,
And see beneath me there the vast array
Of souls who wait their life deeds to atone,
And there before the face of God, alone
Appear, and hear His awful voice then say,
“Throughout thy life, until thy dying day,
Is there not any good deed thou hast done?”

And I shall answer, “Nay, I cannot tell;
But this there is: I loved with all my heart,
Above mine own, one soul; was that not well?
On earth my love brought only bitter smart,
And there I felt the pangs of Thy dread Hell;
From her, my Heaven, bid me not now depart!”

WILLIAM C. HALL.

THE OLD IS BETTER.

Alone, alone, thro’ the sunny street,
In the shadow of a dream,
The forms and faces I pass and meet
In a mist and darkness seem.

The old gray houses stand a-row,
Their windows blink and stare,
The sparrows chirp on the lilac bough
From the garden in the square.

The busy mower whets his scythe,
He hums a cheery rhyme;
The wild bees murmur, and drowse and dive
In the blossom of the lime.

The forms and faces that come and go,
They flicker and wane and gleam,
As I walk through the streets of long ago
In the shadow of a dream.

The faces waver and fade away;
While under the lilac bough
Upspringeth the aspect, bright and gay,
Of a face I used to know.

I see her stand, and she calls my name,
And my heart and pulses glow
As the old life starts like a buried flame,
And the new life flickers low.

The present darkens and faints and fades,
And the old-loved smiles shine through;
The living wander, like ghostly shades,
And the lost are born anew.

And my soul with the joy of its calm is rife,
As I bask in my after-glow,
For I loved my love, and I lived my life
In the days of long ago.

MARY L. HANKIN.

BALLADE OF MIDSUMMER DAYS AND NIGHTS.

With a ripple of leaves and a tinkle of streams
The full world rolls in a rhythm of praise,
And the winds are one with the clouds and beams--
Midsummer days! midsummer days!
The dusk grows vast; in a purple haze,
While the west from a rapture of sunset rights,
Faint stars their exquisite lamps upraise--
Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!

The wood’s green heart is a nest of dreams,
The lush grass thickens and springs and sways,
The rathe wheat rustles, the landscape gleams--
Midsummer days! midsummer days!
In the stilly fields, in the stilly ways,
All secret shadows and mystic lights,
Late lovers murmurous linger and gaze--
Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!

There’s a music of bells from the trampling teams,
Wild skylarks hover, the gorses blaze,
The rich ripe rose as with incense steams--
Midsummer days! midsummer days!
A soul from the honeysuckle strays,
And the nightingale as from prophet heights,
Sings to the Earth of her million Mays--
Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!

And it’s O! for my dear and the charm that stays--
Midsummer days! midsummer days!
It’s O! for my Love and the dark that plights--
Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!

W. E. HENLEY.

OH, GATHER ME THE ROSE.

Oh, gather me the rose, the rose,
While yet in flower we find it,
For summer smiles, but summer goes,
And winter waits behind it.

For with the dream foregone, foregone,
The deed forborne forever,
The worm regret will canker on,
And time will turn him never.

So well it were to love, my love,
And cheat of any laughter
The fate beneath us and above,
The dark before and after.

The myrtle and the rose, the rose,
The sunshine and the swallow,
The dream that comes, the wish that goes,
The memories that follow!

W. E. HENLEY.

HER DREAM.

Fold your arms around me, Sweet,
As against your heart my heart doth beat.

Kiss me, Love, till it fade,--the fright
Of the dreadful dream I dreamt last night.

Oh, thank God, it is you, it is you,
My own love, fair and strong and true.

We two are the same that, yesterday,
Played in the light and tost the hay.

My hair you stroke, O dearest one,
Is alive with youth and bright with the sun.

Tell me again, Love, how I seem
“The prettiest queen of curds and cream.”

Fold me close and kiss me again;
Kiss off the shadow of last night’s pain.

I dreamt last night, as I lay in bed,
That I was old and that you were dead.

I knew you had died long time ago,
And I well recalled the moan and woe.

You had died in your beautiful youth, my sweet;
You had gone to your rest with untired feet;

And I had prayed to come to you,
To lay me down and slumber too.

But it might not be, and the days went on,
And I was all alone, alone.

The women came so neighbourly,
And kissed my face and wept with me;

And the men stood still to see me pass,
And smiled grave smiles, and said, “_Poor lass!_”

Sometimes I seemed to hear your feet,
And my grief-numbed heart would wildly beat;

And I stopt and named my darling’s name--
But never a word of answer came.

The men and women ceased at last
To pity pain that was of the past;

For pain is common, and grief, and loss;
And many come home by Weeping Cross.

Why do I tell you this, my dear?
Sorrow is gone now you are here.

You and I, we sit in the light,
And fled is the horror of yesternight.

The time went on, and I saw one day
My body was bent and my hair was gray.

But the boys and girls a-whispering
Sweet tales in the sweet light of the spring,

Never paused in the tales they told
To say, “_He is dead and she is old_.”

There’s a place in the churchyard where, I thought,
Long since my lover had been brought;

It had sunk with years from a high green mound
To a level no stranger would have found;

But I--I always knew the spot;
How could I miss it, know it not?

Darling, darling, draw me near,
For I cannot shake off the dread and fear.

Fold me so close I scarce can breathe;
And kiss me, for, lo, above, beneath,

The blue sky fades, and the green grass dries,
And the sunshine goes from my lips and eyes.

O God--that dream--it has not fled--
_One of us old, and one of us dead_!

EMILY H. HICKEY.

SONG.

How many lips have uttered one sweet word--
Ever the sweetest word in any tongue!
How many listening hearts have wildly stirred,
While burning blushes to the soft cheeks sprung,
And dear eyes, deepening with a light divine,
Were lifted up, as thine are now to mine!

How oft the night, with silence and perfume,
Has hushed the world that heart might speak to heart,
And make in each dim haunt of leafy gloom
A trysting-place where love might meet and part,
And kisses fall unseen on lips and brow,
As on thine, sweet! my kisses linger now!

CHARLES LOTIN HILDRETH.

THE TRYST.

Sweet as the change from pleasant thoughts to sleep
The silver gloaming melted into gloom,
Then came the evening silence rich and deep,
With mingled breaths of dew-released perfume;
The few first stars shone in the azure pale,
Soft as a young nun’s glances through her veil.

Was it for darkness that thou waited, sweet?
Ah, though thy face was dusk in night’s eclipse,
Thy heart betrayed thee by its quickened beat!
I needed not the light to find thy lips,
Nor in the balmy hush of even-time,
To hear one word more sweet than any rhyme.

CHARLES LOTIN HILDRETH.

BY ONE RAPT DAY.

By one rapt day Love doth his harvest mete,
And from dream wings in memory’s light caressed
Fans calms of joy into my burning breast.
It is that day when Love bowed at thy feet,
And all the noontide in a rush of heat
Rippled with whispers of thy love confessed;
And larks afar sank down with sobs of rest,
Finding their carol heights in thee complete.

The day when, midst the well-known Sussex wood,
Stream music kissed the spirit of the wold
And sang the sun to rest, mingling its gold
With heather-bell and oak, and, rapt in moods
Of melody and shy sweet interludes,
Held our soul’s transport still with joys untold.

A. ERNEST HINSHELWOOD.

THE DILEMMA.

Now, by the blessed Paphian queen,
Who heaves the breast of sweet sixteen;
By every name I cut on bark
Before my morning star grew dark;
By Hymen’s torch, by Cupid’s dart,
By all that thrills the beating heart;
The bright black eye, the melting blue,--
I cannot choose between the two.

I had a vision in my dreams;--
I saw a row of twenty beams;
From every beam a rope was hung,
In every rope a lover swung;
I asked the hue of every eye
That bade each luckless lover die;
Ten shadowy lips said heavenly blue,
And ten accused the darker hue.

I asked a matron which she deemed
With fairest light of beauty beamed;
She answered, some thought both were fair,--
Give her blue eyes and golden hair.
I might have liked her judgment well,
But, as she spoke, she rung the bell,
And all her girls, nor small nor few,
Came marching in,--their eyes were blue.

I asked a maiden; back she flung
The locks that round her forehead hung,
And turned her eye, a glorious one,
Bright as a diamond in the sun,
On me, until beneath its rays
I felt as if my hair would blaze;
She liked all eyes but eyes of green;
She looked at me, what could she mean?

Ah! many lids Love lurks between,
Nor heeds the colouring of his screen;
And when his random arrows fly,
The victim falls, but knows not why.
Gaze not upon his shield of jet,
The shaft upon the string is set;
Look not beneath his azure veil,
Though every limb were cased in mail.

Well both might make a martyr break
The chain that bound him to the stake;
And both with but a single ray
Can melt our very hearts away;
And both, when balanced, hardly seem
To stir the scales, or rock the beam;
But that is dearest, all the while,
That wears for us the sweetest smile.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

THE MEASURE.

Between the pansies and the rye
Flutters my purple butterfly;

Between her white brow and her chin,
Does Love his fairy wake begin:

By poppy-cups and drifts of heather,
Dances the sun and she together.

But o’er the scarlet of her mouth
Whence those entreated words come forth,
Love hovers all the livelong day,
And cannot, through its spell, away;
But there, where he was born, must die
Between the pansies and the rye.

HERBERT P. HORNE.

TWO TRUTHS.

“Darling,” he said, “I never meant
To hurt you;” and his eyes were wet.
“I would not hurt you for the world:
Am I to blame if I forget?”

“Forgive my selfish tears!” she cried,
“Forgive! I knew that it was not
Because you meant to hurt me, sweet,--
I knew it was that you forgot!”

But all the same, deep in her heart
Rankled this thought, and rankles yet,--
“When love is at its best, one loves
So much that he cannot forget.”

HELEN HUNT.

A PRAYER.

Dear, let me dream of love,
Ah! though a dream it be!
I’ll ask no boon above
A word, a smile from thee:
At most, in some still hour, one kindly thought of me.

Sweet, let me gaze awhile
Into those radiant eyes!
I’ll scheme not to beguile
The heart, that deeper lies
Beneath them than yon star in night’s pellucid skies.

Love, let my spirit bow
In worship at thy shrine!
I’ll swear thou shalt not know
One word from lip of mine,
An instant’s pain to send through that shy soul of thine.

SELWYN IMAGE.

A JUNE STORM.

Sullenly fell the rain while under the oak we stood;
It hissed in the leaves above us, and big drops plashed to the ground,
And a horror of darkness fell over river and field and wood,
Where the trees were huddling together like children scared by a sound.

Then suddenly rang a note from a wildbird out of the trees
In quick response to a sunbeam, and lo, o’erhead it was fair,
And sweet was the smell of the meadow, and pleasant the hum of the bees,
As we look’d in each other’s eyes--and the raindrops shone in your hair.

HENRY JENNER.

DOLCINO TO MARGARET.

The world goes up and the world goes down,
And the sunshine follows the rain;
And yesterday’s sneer and yesterday’s frown
Can never come over again,
Sweet wife;
No, never come over again.

For woman is warm, though man be cold,
And the night will hallow the day;
Till the heart which at even was weary and old
Can rise in the morning gay,
Sweet wife;
To its work in the morning gay.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

A BALLADE OF WAITING.

No girdle hath weaver or goldsmith wrought
So rich as the arms of my love can be;
No gems with a lovelier lustre fraught
Than her eyes when they answer me liquidly.
Dear lady of love, be kind to me
In days when the waters of hope abate,
And doubt like a shimmer on sand shall be,
In the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.

Sweet mouth, that the wear of the world hath taught
No glitter of wile or traitorie,
More soft than a cloud in the sunset caught,
Or the heart of a crimson peony;
Oh, turn not its beauty away from me;
To kiss it and cling to it early and late
Shall make sweet minutes of days that flee,
In the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.

Rich hair, that a painter of old had sought
For the weaving of some soft phantasy,
Most fair when the streams of it run distraught
On the firm sweet shoulders yellowly;
Dear Lady, gather it close to me,
Weaving a nest for the double freight
Of cheeks and lips that are one and free,
For the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.

ENVOY.

So time shall be swift till thou mate with me,
For love is mightiest next to fate,
And none shall be happier, Love, than we,
In the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.

ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN.

A FORECAST.

What days await this woman whose strange feet
Breathe spells, whose presence makes men dream like wine,
Tall, free and slender as the forest pine,
Whose form is moulded music, through whose sweet
Frank eyes I feel the very heart’s least beat,
Keen, passionate, full of dreams and fire:
How in the end, and to what man’s desire
Shall all this yield, whose lips shall these lips meet?

One thing I know: if he be great and pure,
This love, this fire, this beauty shall endure;
Triumph and hope shall lead him by the palm:
But if not this, some differing thing he be,
That dream shall break in terror; he shall see
The whirlwind ripen, where he sowed the calm.

ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN.

AN OLD TUNE.

FROM THE FRENCH OF GÉRARD DE NERVAL.

There is an air for which I would disown
Mozart’s, Rossini’s, Weber’s melodies,--
A sweet sad air that languishes and sighs,
And keeps its secret charm for me alone.

Whene’er I hear that music vague and old,
Two hundred years are mist that rolls away;
The thirteenth Louis reigns, and I behold
A green land golden in the dying day.

An old red castle, strong with stony towers,
The windows gay with many-coloured glass,
Wide plains, and rivers flowing among flowers,
That bathe the castle basement as they pass.

In antique weed, with dark eyes and gold hair,
A lady looks forth from her window high;
It may be that I knew and found her fair,
In some forgotten life, long time gone by.

ANDREW LANG.

GOOD-BYE.

Kiss me, and say good-bye;
Good-bye, there is no word to say but this,
Nor any lips left for my lips to kiss,
Nor any tears to shed, when these tears dry;
Kiss me, and say good-bye.

Farewell, be glad, forget;
There is no need to say “forget,” I know,
For youth is youth, and time will have it so,
And though your lips are pale, and your eyes wet,
Farewell, you must forget.

You shall bring home your sheaves,
Many, and heavy, and with blossoms twined
Of memories that go not out of mind;
Let this one sheaf be twined with poppy leaves
When you bring home your sheaves.

In garnered loves of thine,
The ripe good fruit of many hearts and years,
Somewhere let this lie, gray and salt with tears;
It grew too near the sea wind, and the brine
Of life, this love of mine.

This sheaf was spoiled in spring,
And over-long was green, and early sear,
And never gathered gold in the late year
From autumn suns, and moons of harvesting,
But failed in frosts of spring.

Yet was it thine, my sweet,
This love, though weak as young corn withered,
Whereof no man may gather and make bread;
Thine, though it never knew the summer heat;--
Forget not quite, my sweet.

ANDREW LANG.

METEMPSYCHOSIS.

I shall not see thee, nay, but I shall know
Perchance, thy gray eyes in another’s eyes,
Shall guess thy curls in gracious locks that flow
On purest brows, yea, and the swift surmise
Shall follow, and track, and find thee in disguise
Of all sad things, and fair, where sunsets glow,
When through the scent of heather, faint and low,
The weak wind whispers to the day that dies.

From all sweet art, and out of all “old rhyme,”
Thine eyes and lips are light and song to me;
The shadows of the beauty of all time,
Carven and sung are only shapes of thee;
Alas, the shadowy shapes! ah, sweet, my dear,
Shall life or death bring all thy being near?

ANDREW LANG.

A BALLADE OF OLD SWEETHEARTS.

Who is it that weeps for the last year’s flowers
When the wood is aflame with the fires of spring,
And we hear her voice in the lilac bowers
As she croons the runes of the blossoming?
For the same old blooms do the new years bring,
But not to our lives do the years come so,
New lips must kiss and new bosoms cling.--
Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago.

Ah me! for a breath of those morning hours
When Alice and I went a-wandering
Through the shining fields, and it still was ours
To kiss and to feel we were shuddering--
Ah me! when a kiss was a holy thing.--
How sweet were a smile from Maud, and oh!
With Phyllis once more to be whispering.--
Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago.

But it cannot be that old Time devours
Such loves as was Annie’s and mine we sing,
And surely beneficent heavenly powers
Save Muriel’s beauty from perishing;
And if in some golden evening
To a quaint old garden I chance to go,
Shall Marion no more by the wicket sing?--
Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago.