Chapter XIII: Part 13

For a day and a night Love sang to us, played with us, Folded us round from the dark and the light; And our hearts were fulfilled of the music he made with us, Made with our hearts and our lips while he stayed with us, Stayed in mid passage his pinions from flight For a day and a night.

From his foes that kept watch with his wings had he hidden us, Covered us close from the eyes that would smite, From the feet that had tracked and the tongues that had chidden us Sheltering in shade of the myrtles forbidden us Spirit and flesh growing one with delight For a day and a night.

But his wings will not rest and his feet will not stay for us: Morning is here in the joy of its might; With his breath has he sweetened a night and a day for us: Now let him pass, and the myrtles make way for us; Love can but last in us here at his height For a day and a night.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]

"IF SHE BUT KNEW"

If she but knew that I am weeping Still for her sake, That love and sorrow grow with keeping Till they must break, My heart that breaking will adore her, Be hers and die; If she might hear me once implore her, Would she not sigh?

If she but knew that it would save me Her voice to hear, Saying she pitied me, forgave me, Must she forbear? If she were told that I was dying, Would she be dumb? Could she content herself with sighing? Would she not come?

Arthur O'Shaughnessy [1844-1881]

KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN

Kathleen Mavourneen! the gray dawn is breaking, The horn of the hunter is heard on the hill; The lark from her light wing the bright dew is shaking, - Kathleen Mavourneen! what, slumbering still? Oh, hast thou forgotten how soon we must sever? Oh! hast thou forgotten this day we must part? It may be for years, and it may be forever! Oh, why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart? Oh! why art thou silent, Kathleen Mavourneen?

Kathleen Mavourneen, awake from thy slumbers! The blue mountains glow in the sun's golden light; Ah, where is the spell that once hung on my numbers? Arise in thy beauty, thou star of my night! Mavourneen, Mavourneen, my sad tears are falling, To think that from Erin and thee I must part! It may be for years, and it may be forever! Then why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart? Then why art thou silent, Kathleen Mavourneen?

Louisa Macartney Crawford [1790-1858]

ROBIN ADAIR

What's this dull town to me? Robin's not near, - He whom I wished to see, Wished for to hear; Where's all the joy and mirth Made life a heaven on earth? O, they're all fled with thee, Robin Adair!

What made the assembly shine? Robin Adair: What made the ball so fine? Robin was there: What, when the play was o'er, What made my heart so sore? O, it was parting with Robin Adair!

But now thou art far from me, Robin Adair; But now I never see Robin Adair; Yet him I loved so well Still in my heart shall dwell; O, I can ne'er forget Robin Adair!

Welcome on shore again, Robin Adair! Welcome once more again, Robin Adair! I feel thy trembling hand; Tears in thy eyelids stand, To greet thy native land, Robin Adair!

Long I ne'er saw thee, love, Robin Adair; Still I prayed for thee, love, Robin Adair; When thou wert far at sea, Many made love to me, But still I thought on thee, Robin Adair!

Come to my heart again, Robin Adair; Never to part again, Robin Adair; And if thou still art true, I will be constant too, And will wed none but you, Robin Adair!

Caroline Keppel [1735- ? ]

"IF YOU WERE HERE" A Song In Winter

O love, if you were here This dreary, weary day, - If your lips, warm and dear, Found some sweet word to say, - Then hardly would seem drear These skies of wintry gray.

But you are far away, - How far from me, my dear! What cheer can warm the day? My heart is chill with fear, Pierced through with swift dismay; A thought has turned Life sere:

If you, from far away, Should come not back, my dear; If I no more might lay My hand on yours, nor hear That voice, now sad, now gay, Caress my listening ear;

If you, from far away, Should come no more, my dear, - Then with what dire dismay Year joined to hostile year Would frown, if I should stay Where memories mock and jeer!

But I would come away To dwell with you, my dear; Through unknown worlds to stray, - Or sleep; nor hope, nor fear, Nor dream beneath the clay Of all our days that were.

Philip Bourke Marston [1850-1887]

"COME TO ME, DEAREST"

Come to me, dearest, I'm lonely without thee; Daytime and night-time, I'm thinking about thee; Night-time and daytime in dreams I behold thee; Unwelcome the waking which ceases to fold thee. Come to me, darling, my sorrows to lighten, Come in thy beauty to bless and to brighten; Come in thy womanhood, meekly and lowly, Come in thy lovingness, queenly and holy.

Swallows will flit round the desolate ruin, Telling of spring and its joyous renewing; And thoughts of thy love and its manifold treasure, Are circling my heart with a promise of pleasure. O Spring of my spirit, O May of my bosom, Shine out on my soul, till it bourgeon and blossom; The waste of my life has a rose-root within it, And thy fondness alone to the sunshine can win it.

Figure that moves like a song through the even; Features lit up by a reflex of heaven; Eyes like the skies of poor Erin, our mother, Where shadow and sunshine are chasing each other; Smiles coming seldom, but childlike and simple, Planting in each rosy cheek a sweet dimple; - O, thanks to the Saviour, that even thy seeming Is left to the exile to brighten his dreaming.

You have been glad when you knew I was gladdened; Dear, are you sad now to hear I am saddened? Our hearts ever answer in tune and in time, love, As octave to octave, and rhyme unto rhyme, love: I cannot weep but your tears will be flowing, You cannot smile but my cheek will be glowing; I would not die without you at my side, love, You will not linger when I shall have died, love.

Come to me, dear, ere I die of my sorrow, Rise on my gloom like the sun of to-morrow; Strong, swift, and fond are the words which I speak, love, With a song on your lip and a smile on your cheek, love. Come, for my heart in your absence is weary, - Haste, for my spirit is sickened and dreary, - Come to my arms which alone should caress thee, Come to the heart which is throbbing to press thee!

Joseph Brenan [1829-1857]

SONG

'Tis said that absence conquers love! But, oh! believe it not; I've tried, alas! its power to prove, But thou art not forgot. Lady, though fate has bid us part, Yet still thou art as dear, As fixed in this devoted heart, As when I clasped thee here.

I plunge into the busy crowd, And smile to hear thy name; And yet, as if I thought aloud, They know me still the same; And when the wine-cup passes round, I toast some other fair, - But when I ask my heart the sound, Thy name is echoed there.

And when some other name I learn, And try to whisper love, Still will my heart to thee return Like the returning dove. In vain! I never can forget, And would not be forgot; For I must bear the same regret, Whate'er may be my lot.

E'en as the wounded bird will seek Its favorite bower to die, So, lady! I would hear thee speak, And yield my parting sigh. 'Tis said that absence conquers love! But, oh! believe it not; I've tried, alas! its power to prove, But thou art not forgot.

Frederick William Thomas [1811-1864]

PARTING

Too fair, I may not call thee mine: Too dear, I may not see Those eyes with bridal beacons shine; Yet, Darling, keep for me - Empty and hushed, and safe apart, - One little corner of thy heart.

Thou wilt be happy, dear! and bless Thee: happy mayst thou be. I would not make thy pleasure less; Yet, Darling, keep for me - My life to light, my lot to leaven, - One little corner of thy Heaven.

Good-by, dear heart! I go to dwell A weary way from thee; Our first kiss is our last farewell; Yet, Darling, keep for me - Who wander outside in the night, - One little corner of thy light.

Gerald Massey [1828-1907]

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. O, 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 [1874-

A SONG OF AUTUMN

All through the golden weather Until the autumn fell, Our lives went by together So wildly and so well.

But autumn's wind uncloses The heart of all your flowers; I think, as with the roses, So hath it been with ours.

Like some divided river Your ways and mine will be, To drift apart for ever, For ever till the sea.

And yet for one word spoken, One whisper of regret, The dream had not been broken, And love were with us yet.

Rennell Rodd [1858-

THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME

The dames of France are fond and free, And Flemish lips are willing, And soft the maids of Italy, And Spanish eyes are thrilling; Still, though I bask beneath their smile, Their charms fail to bind me, And my heart falls back to Erin's Isle, To the girl I left behind me.

For she's as fair as Shannon's side, And purer than its water, But she refused to be my bride Though many a year I sought her; Yet, since to France I sailed away, Her letters oft remind me That I promised never to gainsay The girl I left behind me.

She says, "My own dear love, come home, My friends are rich and many, Or else abroad with you I'll roam, A soldier stout as any; If you'll not come, nor let me go, I'll think you have resigned me," - My heart nigh broke when I answered "No," To the girl I left behind me.

For never shall my true love brave A life of war and toiling, And never as a skulking slave I'll tread my native soil on; But, were it free or to be freed, The battle's close would find me To Ireland bound, nor message need From the girl I left behind me.

Unknown

"WHEN WE ARE PARTED"

When we are parted let me lie In some far corner of thy heart, Silent, and from the world apart, Like a forgotten melody: Forgotten of the world beside, Cherished by one, and one alone, For some loved memory of its own; So let me in thy heart abide When we are parted.

When we are parted, keep for me The sacred stillness of the night; That hour, sweet Love, is mine by right; Let others claim the day of thee! The cold world sleeping at our feet, My spirit shall discourse with thine; - When stars upon thy pillow shine, At thy heart's door I stand and beat, Though we are parted.

Hamilton Aide [1826-1906]

REMEMBER OR FORGET

I sat beside the streamlet, I watched the water flow, As we together watched it One little year ago: The soft rain pattered on the leaves, The April grass was wet. Ah! folly to remember; 'Tis wiser to forget.

The nightingales made vocal June's palace paved with gold; I watched the rose you gave me Its warm red heart unfold; But breath of rose and bird's song Were fraught with wild regret. 'Tis madness to remember; 'Twere wisdom to forget.

I stood among the gold corn, Alas! no more, I knew, To gather gleaner's measure Of the love that fell from you. For me, no gracious harvest - Would God we ne'er had met! 'Tis hard, Love, to remember, But 'tis harder to forget.

The streamlet now is frozen, The nightingales are fled, The cornfields are deserted, And every rose is dead. I sit beside my lonely fire, And pray for wisdom yet: For calmness to remember, Or courage to forget.

Hamilton Aide [1826-1906]

NANCY DAWSON

Nancy Dawson, Nancy Dawson, Not so very long ago Some one wronged you from sheer love, dear; Little thinking it would crush, dear, All I cherished in you so. But now, what's the odds, my Nancy? Where's the guinea, there's the fancy. Are you Nancy, that old Nancy? Nancy Dawson.

Nancy Dawson, Nancy Dawson, I forget you, what you were; Till I feel the sad hours creep, dear, O'er my heart; as o'er my cheek, dear, Once of old, that old, old hair: And then, unawares, my Nancy, I remember, and I fancy You are Nancy, that old Nancy; Nancy Dawson.

Herbert P. Horne [1864-

MY LITTLE LOVE

God keep you safe, my little love, All through the night. Rest close in His encircling arms Until the light. My heart is with you as I kneel to pray, "Good night! God keep you in His care alway."

Thick shadows creep like silent ghosts About my bed. I lose myself in tender dreams While overhead The moon comes stealing through the window bars. A silver sickle gleaming 'mid the stars.

For I, though I am far away, Feel safe and strong, To trust you thus, dear love, and yet The night is long. I say with sobbing breath the old fond prayer, "Good night! Sweet dreams! God keep you everywhere!"

Charles B. Hawley [1858-

FOR EVER

Thrice with her lips she touched my lips, Thrice with her hand my hand, And three times thrice looked towards the sea, But never to the land: Then, "Sweet," she said, "no more delay, For Heaven forbids a longer stay."

I, with my passion in my heart, Could find no words to waste; But striving often to depart, I strained her to my breast: Her wet tears washed my weary cheek; I could have died, but could not speak.

The anchor swings, the sheet flies loose And, bending to the breeze, The tall ship, never to return, Flies through the foaming seas: Cheerily ho! the sailors cry; - My sweet love lessening to my eye.

O Love, turn towards the land thy sight! No more peruse the sea; Our God, who severs thus our hearts, Shall surely care for thee: For me let waste-wide ocean swing, I too lie safe beneath His wing.

William Caldwell Roscoe [1823-1859]

AUF WIEDERSEHEN

The little gate was reached at last, Half hid in lilacs down the lane; She pushed it wide, and, as she passed, A wistful look she backward cast, And said, - "Auf wiedersehen!"

With hand on latch, a vision white Lingered reluctant, and again Half doubting if she did aright, Soft as the dews that fell that night, She said, - "Auf wiedersehen!"

The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair; I linger in delicious pain; Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air To breathe in thought I scarcely dare, Thinks she, - "Auf wiedersehen?" . . .

'Tis thirteen years; once more I press The turf that silences the lane; I hear the rustle of her dress, I smell the lilacs, and - ah, yes, I hear, - "Auf wiedersehen!"

Sweet piece of bashful maiden art! The English words had seemed too fain, But these - they drew us heart to heart, Yet held us tenderly apart; She said, - "Auf wiedersehen!"

James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]

"FOREVER AND A DAY"

I little know or care If the blackbird on the bough Is filling all the air With his soft crescendo now; For she is gone away, And when she went she took The springtime in her look, The peachblow on her cheek, The laughter from the brook, The blue from out the May - And what she calls a week Is forever and a day!

It's little that I mind How the blossoms, pink or white, At every touch of wind Fall a-trembling with delight; For in the leafy lane, Beneath the garden-boughs, And through the silent house One thing alone I seek. Until she come again The May is not the May, And what she calls a week Is forever and a day!

Thomas Bailey Aldrich [1837-1907]

OLD GARDENS

The white rose tree that spent its musk For lovers' sweeter praise, The stately walks we sought at dusk, Have missed thee many days.

Again, with once-familiar feet, I tread the old parterre - But, ah, its bloom is now less sweet Than when thy face was there.

I hear the birds of evening call; I take the wild perfume; I pluck a rose - to let it fall And perish in the gloom.

Arthur Upson [1877-1908]

FERRY HINKSEY

Beyond the ferry water That fast and silent flowed, She turned, she gazed a moment, Then took her onward road

Between the winding willows To a city white with spires; It seemed a path of pilgrims To the home of earth's desires.

Blue shade of golden branches Spread for her journeying, Till he that lingered lost her Among the leaves of Spring.

Laurence Binyon [1869 -

WEARYIN' FER YOU

Jest a-wearyin' fer you - All the time a-feelin' blue; Wishin' fer you - wonderin' when You'll be comin' home again; Restless - don't know what to do - Jest a-wearyin' fer you!

Keep a-mopin' day by day: Dull - in everybody's way; Folks they smile an' pass along Wonderin' what on earth is wrong; 'Twouldn't help 'em if they knew - Jest a-wearyin' fer you.

Room's so lonesome, with your chair Empty by the fireplace there, Jest can't stand the sight o' it! Go outdoors an' roam a bit: But the woods is lonesome, too, Jest a-wearyin' fer you.

Comes the wind with sounds that' jes' Like the rustlin' o' your dress; An' the dew on flower an' tree Tinkles like your steps to me! Violets, like your eyes so blue - Jest a-wearyin' fer you!

Mornin' comes, the birds awake (Them that sung so fer your sake!), But there's sadness in the notes That come thrillin' from their throats! Seem to feel your absence, too - Jest a-wearyin' fer you.

Evenin' comes: I miss you more When the dark is in the door; 'Pears jest like you orter be There to open fer me! Latch goes tinklin' - thrills me through, Sets me wearyin' fer you!

. . . . . . . . .

Jest a-wearyin' fer you - All the time a-feelin' blue! Wishin' fer you - wonderin' when You'll be comin' home again; Restless - don't know what to do - Jest a-wearyin' fer you!

Frank L. Stanton [1857-1927]

THE LOVERS OF MARCHAID

Dominic came riding down, sworded, straight and splendid, Drave his hilt against her door, flung a golden chain. Said: "I'll teach your lips a song sweet as his that's ended, Ere the white rose call the bee, the almond flower again."

But he only saw her head bent within the gloom Over heaps of bridal thread bright as apple-bloom, Silver silk like rain that spread across the driving loom.

Dreaming Fanch, the cobbler's son, took his tools and laces, Wrought her shoes of scarlet dye, shoes as pale as snow; "They shall lead her wildrose feet all the fairy paces Danced along the road of love, the road such feet should go" -

But he only saw her eyes turning from his gift Out towards the silver skies where the white clouds drift, Where the wild gerfalcon flies, where the last sails lift.

Bran has built his homestead high where the hills may shield her, Where the young bird waits the spring, where the dawns are fair, Said: "I'll name my trees for her, since I may not yield her Stars of morning for her feet, of evening for her hair."

But he did not see them ride, seven dim sail and more, All along the harbor-side, white from shore to shore, Nor heard the voices of the tide crying at her door.

Jean-Marie has touched his pipe down beside the river When the young fox bends the fern, when the folds are still, Said: "I send her all the gifts that my love may give her, - Golden notes like golden birds to seek her at my will."

But he only found the waves, heard the sea-gull's cry, In and out the ocean caves, underneath the sky, All above the wind-washed graves where dead seamen lie.

Marjorie L. C. Pickthall [1883-1922]

SONG

She's somewhere in the sunlight strong, Her tears are in the falling rain, She calls me in the wind's soft song, And with the flowers she comes again.

Yon bird is but her messenger, The moon is but her silver car; Yea! sun and moon are sent by her, And every wistful waiting star.

Richard Le Gallienne [1866-

THE LOVER THINKS OF HIS LADY IN THE NORTH

Now many are the stately ships that northward steam away, And gray sails northward blow black hulls, and many more are they; And myriads of viking gulls flap to the northern seas: But Oh my thoughts that go to you are more than all of these!

The winds blow to the northward like a million eager wings, The driven sea a million white-capped waves to northward flings: I send you thoughts more many than the waves that fleck the sea, More eager than tempestuous winds, O Love long leagues from me!

O Love, long leagues from me, I would I trod the drenched deck Of some ship speeding to the North and staunch against all wreck, I would I were a sea-gull strong of wing and void of fear: Unfaltering and fleet I'd fly the long way to my Dear!

O if I were the sea, upon your northern land I'd beat Until my waves flowed over all, and kissed your wandering feet; And if I were the winds, I'd waft you perfumes from the South, And give my pleadings to your ears, my kisses to your mouth.

Though many ships are sailing, never one will carry me, I may not hurry northward with the gulls, the winds, the sea; But fervid thoughts they say can flash across long leagues of blue - Ah, so my love and longing must be known, Dear Heart, to you!

Shaemas O Sheel [1886-

CHANSON DE ROSEMONDE

The dawn is lonely for the sun, And chill and drear; The one lone star is pale and wan As one in fear.

But when day strides across the hills, The warm blood rushes through The bared soft bosom of the blue And all the glad east thrills.

Oh, come, my king! The hounds of joy Are waiting for thy horn To chase the doe of heart's desire Across the heights of morn.

Oh, come, my Sun, and let me know The rapture of the day! Oh, come, my love! Oh, come, my love! Thou art so long away!

Richard Hovey [1864-1900]

AD DOMNULAM SUAM

Little lady of my heart! Just a little longer, Love me: we will pass and part, Ere this love grow stronger.

I have loved thee, Child! too well, To do aught but leave thee: Nay! my lips should never tell Any tale to grieve thee.

Little lady of my heart! Just a little longer I may love thee: we will part Ere my love grow stronger.

Soon thou leavest fairy-land; Darker grow thy tresses: Soon no more of hand in hand; Soon no more caresses!

Little lady of my heart! Just a little longer Be a child; then we will part, Ere this love grow stronger.

Ernest Dowson [1867-1900]

MARIAN DRURY

Marian Drury, Marian Drury, How are the marshes full of the sea! Acadie dreams of your coming home All year through, and her heart gets free, -

Free on the trail of the wind to travel, Search and course with the roving tide, All year long where his hands unravel Blossom and berry the marshes hide.

Marian Drury, Marian Drury, How are the marshes full of the surge! April over the Norland now Walks in the quiet from verge to verge.

Burying, brimming, the building billows Fret the long dikes with uneasy foam. Drenched with gold weather, the idling willows Kiss you a hand from the Norland home.

Marian Drury, Marian Drury, How are the marshes full of the sun! Blomidon waits for your coming home, All day long where the white wings run.

All spring through they falter and follow, Wander, and beckon the roving tide, Wheel and float with the veering swallow, Lift you a voice from the blue hillside.

Marian Drury, Marian Drury, How are the marshes full of the rain! April over the Norland now Bugles for rapture, and rouses pain, -

Halts before the forsaken dwelling, Where in the twilight, too spent to roam, Love, whom the fingers of death are quelling, Cries you a cheer from the Norland home.

Marian Drury, Marian Drury, How are the marshes filled with you! Grand Pre dreams of your coming home, - Dreams while the rainbirds all night through,

Far in the uplands calling to win you, Tease the brown dusk on the marshes wide; And never the burning heart within you Stirs in your sleep by the roving tide.

Bliss Carman [1861-1929]

LOVE'S ROSARY

All day I tell my rosary For now my love's away: To-morrow he shall come to me About the break of day; A rosary of twenty hours, And then a rose of May; A rosary of fettered flowers, And then a holy-day.

All day I tell my rosary, My rosary of hours: And here's a flower of memory, And here's a hope of flowers, And here's an hour that yearns with pain For old forgotten years, An hour of loss, an hour of gain, And then a shower of tears.

All day I tell my rosary, Because my love's away; And never a whisper comes to me, And never a word to say; But, if it's parting more endears, God bring him back, I pray; Or my heart will break in the darkness Before the break of day.

All day I tell my rosary, My rosary of hours, Until an hour shall bring to me The hope of all the flowers . . . I tell my rosary of hours, For O, my love's away; And - a dream may bring him back to me About the break of day.

Alfred Noyes [1880-

WHEN SHE COMES HOME

When she comes home again! A thousand ways I fashion, to myself, the tenderness Of my glad welcome: I shall tremble - yes; And touch her, as when first in the old days I touched her girlish hand, nor dared upraise Mine eyes, such was my faint heart's sweet distress Then silence: and the perfume of her dress: The room will sway a little, and a haze Cloy eyesight - soul-sight, even - for a space; And tears - yes; and the ache here in the throat, To know that I so ill deserve the place Her arms make for me; and the sobbing note I stay with kisses, ere the tearful face Again is hidden in the old embrace.

James Whitcomb Riley [1849-1916]

THE TRAGEDY OF LOVE

SONG

My silks and fine array, My smiles and languished air, By Love are driven away; And mournful lean Despair Brings me yew to deck my grave: Such end true lovers have.

His face is fair as heaven When springing buds unfold: O why to him was't given, Whose heart is wintry cold? His breast is Love's all-worshipped tomb, Where all Love's pilgrims come.

Bring me an ax and spade, Bring me a winding-sheet; When I my grave have made, Let winds and tempests beat: Then down I'll lie, as cold as clay: True love doth pass away!

William Blake [1757-1827]

THE FLIGHT OF LOVE

When the lamp is shattered The light in the dust lies dead - When the cloud is scattered, The rainbow's glory is shed. When the lute is broken, Sweet tones are remembered not; When the lips have spoken, Loved accents are soon forgot.

As music and splendor Survive not the lamp and the lute, The heart's echoes render No song when the spirit is mute - No song but sad dirges, Like the wind through a ruined cell, Or the mournful surges That ring the dead seaman's knell.

When hearts have once mingled, Love first leaves the well-built nest; The weak one is singled To endure what it once possessed. O Love! who bewailest The frailty of all things here, Why choose you the frailest For your cradle, your home, and your bier?

Its passions will rock thee As the storms rock the ravens on high; Bright reason will mock thee, Like the sun from a wintry sky. From thy nest every rafter Will rot, and thine eagle home Leave thee naked to laughter, When leaves fall and cold winds come.

Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822]

"FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST PRAYER"

Farewell! if ever fondest prayer For other's weal availed on high, Mine will not all be lost in air, But waft thy name beyond the sky. 'Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh: Oh! more than tears of blood can tell, When wrung from guilt's expiring eye, Are in that word - Farewell! - Farewell!

These lips are mute, these eyes are dry: But in my breast and in my brain Awake the pangs that pass not by, The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. My soul nor deigns nor dares complain, Though grief and passion there rebel: I only know we loved in vain - I only feel - Farewell! - Farewell!

George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]

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 endeavor, 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 he 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 [1812-1889]

MODERN BEAUTY

I am the torch, she saith, and what to me If the moth die of me? I am the flame Of Beauty, and I burn that all may see Beauty, and I have neither joy nor shame. But live with that clear light of perfect fire Which is to men the death of their desire.

I am Yseult and Helen, I have seen Troy burn, and the most loving knight lies dead. The world has been my mirror, time has been My breath upon the glass; and men have said, Age after age, in rapture and despair, Love's poor few words, before my image there.

I live, and am immortal; in my eyes The sorrow of the world, and on my lips The joy of life, mingle to make me wise; Yet now the day is darkened with eclipse: Who is there lives for beauty? Still am I The torch, but where's the moth that still dares die?

Arthur Symons [1865-

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering? The sedge has withered from the lake, And no birds sing.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel's granary is full, And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow With anguish moist and fever-dew, And on thy cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful - a fairy's child, Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She looked at me as she did love, And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed And nothing else saw all day long, For sidelong would she bend, and sing A fairy's song.

She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild and manna-dew, And sure in language strange she said, "I love thee true."

She took me to her elfin grot, And there she wept and sighed full sore; And there I shut her wild, wild eyes With kisses four.

And there she lulled me asleep, And there I dreamed - Ah! woe betide! The latest dream I ever dreamed On the cold hill's side.

I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all: They cried - "La belle dame sans merci Hath thee in thrall!"

I saw their starved lips in the gloam With horrid warning gaped wide, And I awoke and found me here On the cold hill's side.

And this is why I sojourn here Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is withered from the lake, And no birds sing.

John Keats [1795-1821]

TANTALUS - TEXAS

"If I may trust your love," she cried, "And you would have me for a bride, Ride over yonder plain, and bring Your flask full from the Mustang spring; Fly, fast as western eagle's wing, O'er the Llano Estacado!"

He heard, and bowed without a word, His gallant steed he lightly spurred! He turned his face, and rode away Toward the grave of dying day, And vanished with its parting ray On the Llano Estacado.

Night came, and found him riding on, Day came, and still he rode alone. He spared not spur, he drew not rein, Across that broad, unchanging plain, Till he the Mustang spring might gain, On the Llano Estacado.

A little rest, a little draught, Hot from his hand, and quickly quaffed, His flask was filled, and then he turned. Once more his steed the maguey spurned, Once more the sky above him burned, On the Llano Estacado.

How hot the quivering landscape glowed! His brain seemed boiling as he rode - Was it a dream, a drunken one, Or was he really riding on? Was that a skull that gleamed and shone On the Llano Estacado?

"Brave steed of mine, brave steed!" he cried, "So often true, so often tried, Bear up a little longer yet!" His mouth was black with blood and sweat - Heaven! how he longed his lips to wet On the Llano Estacado.

And still, within his breast, he held The precious flask so lately filled. Oh, for a drink! But well he knew If empty it should meet her view, Her scorn - but still his longing grew On the Llano Estacado.

His horse went down. He wandered on, Giddy, blind, beaten, and alone. While upon cushioned couch you lie, Oh, think how hard it is to die, Beneath the cruel, cloudless sky On the Llano Estacado.

At last he staggered, stumbled, fell, His day was done, he knew full well, And raising to his lips the flask, The end, the object of his task, Drank to her - more she could not ask. Ah, the Llano Estacado!

That night in the Presidio, Beneath the torchlight's wavy glow, She danced - and never thought of him, The victim of a woman's whim, Lying, with face upturned and grim, On the Llano Estacado.

Joaquin Miller [1839-1913]

ENCHAINMENT

I went to her who loveth me no more, And prayed her bear with me, if so she might; For I had found day after day too sore, And tears that would not cease night after night. And so I prayed her, weeping, that she bore To let me be with her a little; yea, To soothe myself a little with her sight, Who loved me once, ah many a night and day.

Then she who loveth me no more, maybe She pitied somewhat: and I took a chain To bind myself to her, and her to me; Yea, so that I might call her mine again. Lo! she forbade me not; but I and she Fettered her fair limbs, and her neck more fair, Chained the fair wasted white of love's domain. And put gold fetters on her golden hair.

Oh! the vain joy it is to see her lie Beside me once again; beyond release, Her hair, her hand, her body, till she die, All mine, for me to do with what I please! For, after all, I find no chain whereby To chain her heart to love me as before, Nor fetter for her lips, to make them cease From saying still she loveth me no more.

Arthur O'Shaughnessy [1844-1881]

AULD ROBIN GRAY

When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame, And a' the warld to rest are gane, The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e, While my gudeman lies sound by me.

Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride; But saving a croun he had naething else beside: To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea; And the croun and the pund were baith for me.

He hadna been awa' a week but only twa, When my father brak his arm, and the kye was stown awa'; My mother she fell sick, - and my Jamie at the sea - And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin' me.

My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin; I toiled day and night, but their bread I couldna win; Auld Rob maintained them baith, and wi' tears in his e'e Said, "Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me!"

My heart it said nay; I looked for Jamie back; But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack; His ship it was a wrack - Why didna Jamie dee? Or why do I live to cry, Wae's me!

My father urged me sair: my mother didna speak; But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break: They gi'ed him my hand, though my heart was in the sea; Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.

I hadna been a wife a week but only four, When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the door, I saw my Jamie's wraith, - for I couldna think it he, Till he said, "I'm come hame to marry thee."

O, sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say; We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves away: I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee; And why was I born to say, Wae's me!

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin; I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin; But I'll do my best a gude wife aye to be, For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me.

Anne Barnard [1750-1825]

LOST LIGHT

My heart is chilled and my pulse is slow, But often and often will memory go, Like a blind child lost in a waste of snow, Back to the days when I loved you so - The beautiful long ago.

I sit here dreaming them through and through, The blissful moments I shared with you - The sweet, sweet days when our love was new, When I was trustful and you were true - Beautiful days, but few!

Blest or wretched, fettered or free, Why should I care how your life may be, Or whether you wander by land or sea? I only know you are dead to me, Ever and hopelessly.

Oh, how often at day's decline I pushed from my window the curtaining vine, To see from your lattice the lamp-light shine - Type of a message that, half divine, Flashed from your heart to mine.

Once more the starlight is silvering all; The roses sleep by the garden wall; The night bird warbles his madrigal, And I hear again through the sweet air fall The evening bugle-call.

But summers will vanish and years will wane, And bring no light to your window pane; Nor gracious sunshine nor patient rain Can bring dead love back to life again: I call up the past in vain.

My heart is heavy, my heart is old, And that proves dross which I counted gold; I watch no longer your curtain's fold; The window is dark and the night is cold, And the story forever told.

Elizabeth Akers [1832-1911]

A SIGH

It was nothing but a rose I gave her, - Nothing but a rose Any wind might rob of half its savor, Any wind that blows.

When she took it from my trembling fingers With a hand as chill - Ah, the flying touch upon them lingers, Stays, and thrills them still!

Withered, faded, pressed between the pages, Crumpled fold on fold, - Once it lay upon her breast, and ages Cannot make it old!

Harriet Prescott Spofford [1835-1921]

HEREAFTER

Love, when all the years are silent, vanished quite and laid to rest, When you and I are sleeping, folded breathless breast to breast, When no morrow is before us, and the long grass tosses o'er us, And our grave remains forgotten, or by alien footsteps pressed -

Still that love of ours will linger, that great love enrich the earth, Sunshine in the heavenly azure, breezes blowing joyous mirth; Fragrance fanning off from flowers, melody of summer showers, Sparkle of the spicy wood-fires round the happy autumn hearth.

That's our love. But you and I, dear - shall we linger with it yet, Mingled in one dew-drop, tangled in one sunbeam's golden net - On the violet's purple bosom, I the sheen, but you the blossom, Stream on sunset winds, and be the haze with which some hill is wet?

Or, beloved - if ascending - when we have endowed the world With the best bloom of our being, whither will our way be whirled, Through what vast and starry spaces, toward what awful, holy places, With a white light on our faces, spirit over spirit furled?

Only this our yearning answers: wheresoe'er that way defile, Not a film shall part us through the eons of that mighty while, In the fair eternal weather, even as phantoms still together, Floating, floating, one forever, in the light of God's great smile.

Harriet Prescott Spofford [1835-1921]

ENDYMION

The apple trees are hung with gold, And birds are loud in Arcady, The sheep lie bleating in the fold, The wild goat runs across the wold, But yesterday his love he told, I know he will come back to me. O rising moon! O Lady moon! Be you my lover's sentinel, You cannot choose but know him well, For he is shod with purple shoon, You cannot choose but know my love, For he a shepherd's crook doth bear, And he is soft as any dove, And brown and curly is his hair.

The turtle now has ceased to call Upon her crimson-footed groom, The gray wolf prowls about the stall, The lily's singing seneschal Sleeps in the lily-bell, and all The violet hills are lost in gloom. O risen moon! O holy moon! Stand on the top of Helice, And if my own true love you see, Ah! if you see the purple shoon, The hazel crook, the lad's brown hair, The goat-skin wrapped about his arm, Tell him that I am waiting where The rushlight glimmers in the Farm.

The falling dew is cold and chill, And no bird sings in Arcady, The little fauns have left the hill, Even the tired daffodil Has closed its gilded doors, and still My lover comes not back to me. False moon! False moon! O waning moon! Where is my own true lover gone, Where are the lips vermilion, The shepherd's crook, the purple shoon? Why spread that silver pavilion, Why wear that veil of drifting mist? Ah! thou hast young Endymion, Thou hast the lips that should be kissed!

Oscar Wilde [1856-1900]

"LOVE IS A TERRIBLE THING"

I went out to the farthest meadow, I lay down in the deepest shadow;

And I said unto the earth, "Hold me," And unto the night, "O enfold me!"

And unto the wind petulantly I cried, "You know not for you are free!"

And I begged the little leaves to lean Low and together for a safe screen;

Then to the stars I told my tale: "That is my home-light, there in the vale,

"And O, I know that I shall return, But let me lie first mid the unfeeling fern;

"For there is a flame that has blown too near, And there is a name that has grown too dear, And there is a fear" . . . .

And to the still hills and cool earth and far sky I made moan, "The heart in my bosom is not my own!

"O would I were free as the wind on wing; Love is a terrible thing!"

Grace Fallow Norton [1876-

THE BALLAD OF THE ANGEL

"Who is it knocking in the night, That fain would enter in?" "The ghost of Lost Delight am I, The sin you would not sin, Who comes to look in your two eyes And see what might have been."

"Oh, long ago and long ago I cast you forth," he said, "For that your eyes were all too blue, Your laughing mouth too red, And my torn soul was tangled in The tresses of your head."

"Now mind you with what bitter words You cast me forth from you?" "I bade you back to that fair Hell From whence your breath you drew, And with great blows I broke my heart Lest it might follow too.

"Yea, from the grasp of your white hands I freed my hands that day, And have I not climbed near to God As these His henchmen may?" "Ah, man, - ah, man! 'twas my two hands That led you all the way."

"I hid my eyes from your two eyes That they might see aright." "Yet think you 'twas a star that led Your feet from height to height? It was the flame of my two eyes That drew you through the night."

With trembling hands he threw the door, Then fell upon his knee: "O, Vision armed and cloaked in light, Why do you honor me?" "The Angel of your Strength am I Who was your sin," quoth she.

"For that you slew me long ago My hands have raised you high; For that mine eyes you closed, mine eyes Are lights to lead you by; And 'tis my touch shall swing the gates Of Heaven when you die!"

Theodosia Garrison [1874-

"LOVE CAME BACK AT FALL O' DEW"

Love came back at fall o' dew, Playing his old part; But I had a word or two, That would break his heart.

"He who comes at candlelight, That should come before, Must betake him to the night From a barred door."

This the word that made us part In the fall o' dew; This the word that brake his heart - Yet it brake mine, too!

Lizette Woodworth Reese [1856-1935]

I SHALL NOT CARE

When I am dead and over me bright April Shakes out her rain-drenched hair, Though you should lean above me broken-hearted, I shall not care.

I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful When rain bends down the bough, And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted Than you are now.

Sara Teasdale [1884-1933]

OUTGROWN

Nay, you wrong her, my friend, she's not fickle; her love
she has simply outgrown:
One can read the whole matter, translating her heart
by the light of one's own.

Can you bear me to talk with you frankly? There is much that
my heart would say;
And you know we were children together, have quarreled
and "made up" in play.

And so, for the sake of old friendship, I venture to tell you
the truth, -
As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I might in our
earlier youth.

Five summers ago, when you wooed her, you stood on the
selfsame plane,
Face to face, heart to heart, never dreaming your souls
should be parted again.

She loved you at that time entirely, in the bloom, of her life's
early May;
And it is not her fault, I repeat it, that she does not love you
to-day.

Nature never stands still, nor souls either: they ever go up
or go down;
And hers has been steadily soaring - but how has it been
with your own?

She has struggled and yearned and aspired, grown purer and wiser each year: The stars are not farther above you in yon luminous atmosphere!

For she whom you crowned with fresh roses, down yonder, five summers ago, Has learned that the first of our duties to God and ourselves is to grow.

Her eyes they are sweeter and calmer: but their vision is clearer as well; Her voice has a tender cadence, but is pure as a silver bell.

Her face has the look worn by those who with God and his angels have talked: The white robes she wears are less white than the spirits with whom she has walked.

And you? Have you aimed at the highest? Have you, too,
aspired and prayed?
Have you looked upon evil unsullied? Have you conquered it
undismayed?

Have you, too, grown purer and wiser, as the months
and the years have rolled on?
Did you meet her this morning rejoicing in the triumph
of victory won?

Nay, hear me! The truth cannot harm you. When to-day
in her presence you stood
Was the hand that you gave her as white and clean as that
of her womanhood?

Go measure yourself by her standard; look back on the years
that have fled:
Then ask, if you need, why she tells you that the love of her
girlhood is dead.

She cannot look down to her lover: her love, like her soul, aspires; He must stand by her side, or above her, who would kindle its holy fires.

Now farewell! For the sake of old friendship I have ventured to tell you the truth, As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly as I might in our earlier youth.

Julia C. R. Dorr [1825-1913]

A TRAGEDY

Among his books he sits all day To think and read and write; He does not smell the new-mown hay, The roses red and white.