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I walked in the lonesome evening,
And who so sad as I,
When I saw the young men and maidens
Merrily passing by.
To thee, my Love, to thee--
So fain would I come to thee!
While the ripples fold upon sands of gold,
And I look across the sea.

I stretch out my hands; who will clasp them?
I call,--thou repliest no word.
Oh, why should heart-longing be weaker
Than the waving wings of a bird!
To thee, my Love, to thee--
So fain would I come to thee!
For the tide 's at rest from east to west,
And I look across the sea.

[Illustration: Full-page Plate]

There 's joy in the hopeful morning,
There 's peace in the parting day,
There 's sorrow with every lover
Whose true love is far away.
To thee, my Love, to thee--
So fain would I come to thee!
And the water 's bright in a still moonlight,
As I look across the sea.






Lute! breathe thy lowest in my Lady's ear,
Sing while she sleeps, "Ah! belle dame, aimez-vous?"
Till, dreaming still, she dream that I am here,
And wake to find it, as my love is, true;
Then, when she listens in her warm white nest,
Say in slow music,--softer, tenderer yet,
That lute-strings quiver when their tone 's at rest,
And my heart trembles when my lips are set.

Stars! if my sweet love still a-dreaming lies,
Shine through the roses for a lover's sake
And send your silver to her lidded eyes,
Kissing them very gently till she wake;
Then while she wonders at the lay and light,
Tell her, though morning endeth star and song,
That ye live still, when no star glitters bright,
And my love lasteth, though it finds no tongue.



Come, rosy Day!
Come quick--I pray--
I am so glad when I thee see!
Because my Fair,
Who is so dear,
Is rosy-red and white like thee.

She lives, I think,
On heavenly drink
Dawn-dew, which Hebe pours for her;
Else--when I sip
At her soft lip
How smells it of ambrosia?

She is so fair
None can compare;
And, oh, her slender waist divine!
Her sparkling eyes
Set in the skies
The morning stars would far outshine!

Only to hear
Her voice so clear
The village gathers in the street;
And Tityrus,
Grown one of us,
Leaves piping on his flute so sweet.

The Graces three,
Where'er she be,
Call all the Loves to flutter nigh;
And what she 'll say,--
Speak when she may,--
Is full of sense and majesty!






If I could choose my paradise,
And please myself with choice of bliss,
Then I would have your soft blue eyes
And rosy little mouth to kiss!
Your lips, as smooth and tender, child,
As rose-leaves in a coppice wild.

If fate bade choose some sweet unrest,
To weave my troubled life a snare,
Then I would say "her maiden breast
And golden ripple of her hair;"
And weep amid those tresses, child,
Contented to be thus beguiled.



_Meet we no angels, Pansie?_

Came, on a Sabbath noon, my sweet,
In white, to find her lover;
The grass grew proud beneath her feet,
The green elm-leaves above her:--
Meet we no angels, Pansie?

She said, "We meet no angels now;"
And soft lights streamed upon her;
And with white hand she touched a bough;
She did it that great honour:--
What! meet no angels, Pansie?

O sweet brown hat, brown hair, brown eyes
Down-dropped brown eyes so tender!
Then what said I?--Gallant replies
Seem flattery, and offend her:--
But,--meet no angels, Pansie?



_C'est un songe que d'y penser._

My love, on a fair May morning,
Would weave a garland of May:
The dew hung frore, as her foot tripped o'er
The grass at dawn of the day;
On leaf and stalk, in each green wood-walk,
Till the sun should charm it away.

Green as a leaf her kirtle,
Her bodice red as a rose:
Her white bare feet went softly and sweet
By roots where the violet grows;
Where speedwells azure as heaven,
Their sleepy eyes half close.

O'er arms as fair as the lilies
No sleeve my love drew on:
She found a bower of the wildrose flower,
And for her breast culled one:
And I laugh and know her breasts will grow
Or ever a year be gone.

[Illustration: Full-page Plate]

O sweet dream, wrought of a dear fore-thought,
Of a golden time to fall!
She seemed to sing, in her wandering,
Till doves in the elm-tops tall
Grew mute to hear; as her song rang clear
How love is the lord of all.






Lady! in this night of June,
Fair like thee and holy,
Art thou gazing at the moon
That is rising slowly?
I am gazing on her now:
Something tells me, so art thou.

Night hath been when thou and I
Side by side were sitting,
Watching o'er the moonlit sky
Fleecy cloudlets flitting.
Close our hands were linkčd then;
When will they be linked again?

What to me the starlight still,
Or the moonbeams' splendour,
If I do not feel the thrill
Of thy fingers slender?
Summer nights in vain are clear,
If thy footstep be not near.

Roses slumbering in their sheaths
O'er my threshold clamber,
And the honeysuckle wreathes
Its translucent amber
Round the gables of my home:
How is it thou dost not come?

If thou camest, rose on rose
From its sleep would waken;
From each flower and leaf that blows
Spices would be shaken;
Floating down from star and tree,
Dreamy perfumes welcome thee.

I would lead thee where the leaves
In the moon-rays glisten;
And, where shadows fall in sheaves,
We would lean and listen
For the song of that sweet bird
That in April nights is heard.

And when weary lids would close,
And thy head was drooping,
Then, like dew that steeps the rose,
O'er thy languor stooping,
I would, till I woke a sigh,
Kiss thy sweet lips silently.

I would give thee all I own,
All thou hast would borrow,
I from thee would keep alone
Fear and doubt and sorrow.
All of tender that is mine
Should most tenderly be thine.

Moonlight! into other skies,
I beseech thee wander.
Cruel thus to mock mine eyes,
Idle, thus to squander
Love's own light on this dark spot;--
For my lady cometh not!







If there were dreams to sell,
What would you buy?
Some cost a passing bell;
Some a light sigh,
That shakes from Life's fresh crown
Only a rose-leaf down.
If there were dreams to sell,
Merry and sad to tell,
And the crier rung the bell,
What would you buy?


A cottage lone and still,
With bowers nigh,
Shadowy, my woes to still,
Until I die.
Such pearl from Life's fresh crown
Fain would I shake me down.
Were dreams to have at will,
This would best heal my ill,
This would I buy.


But there were dreams to sell
Ill didst thou buy;
Life is a dream, they tell,
Waking, to die.
Dreaming a dream to prize,
Is wishing ghosts to rise;
And, if I had the spell
To call the buried well,
Which one would I?


If there are ghosts to raise,
What shall I call,
Out of hell's murky haze,
Heaven's blue pall?
Raise my loved long-lost boy
To lead me to his joy.--
There are no ghosts to raise;
Out of death lead no ways;
Vain is the call.


Know'st thou not ghosts to sue
No love thou hast.
Else lie, as I will do,
And breathe thy last.
So out of Life's fresh crown
Fall like a rose-leaf down.
Thus are the ghosts to woo;
Thus are all dreams made true,
Ever to last!



To sea, to sea! the calm is o'er;
The wanton water leaps in sport,
And rattles down the pebbly shore;
The dolphin wheels, the sea-cows snort,
And unseen Mermaids' pearly song
Comes bubbling up, the weeds among.
Fling broad the sail, dip deep the oar:
To sea, to sea! the calm is o'er.

To sea, to sea! Our wide-winged bark
Shall billowy cleave its sunny way,
And with its shadow, fleet and dark,
Break the caved Tritons' azure day,
Like mighty eagle soaring light
O'er antelopes on Alpine height.
The anchor heaves, the ship swings free,
The sails swell full. To sea, to sea!


My goblet's golden lips are dry,
And, as the rose doth pine
For dew, so doth for wine
My goblet's cup;
Rain, O! rain, or it will die;
Rain, fill it up!

Arise, and get thee wings to-night,
Ętna! and let run o'er
Thy wines, a hill no more,
But darkly frown
A cloud, where eagles dare not soar,
Dropping rain down.



Strew not earth with empty stars,
Strew it not with roses,
Nor feathers from the crest of Mars,
Nor summer's idle posies.
'T is not the primrose-sandalled moon,
Nor cold and silent morn,
Nor he that climbs the dusty noon,
Nor mower war with scythe that drops,
Stuck with helmed and turbaned tops
Of enemies new shorn.
Ye cups, ye lyres, ye trumpets know,
Pour your music, let it flow,
'T is Bacchus' son who walks below.




Who is the baby, that doth lie
Beneath the silken canopy
Of thy blue eye?


It is young Sorrow, laid asleep
In the crystal deep.


Let us sing his lullaby,

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