ENVOY.
PRINCE, for this sevennyght be not fain,
Nor this twelfmonthe to question wher
They be, withouten this refraine,
Nay, wher are the snowes that fell last year?
Stephen Temple.
FATIMA.
O LOVE, Love, Love! O withering might!
O sun, that from thy noonday height
Shudderest when I strain my sight,
Throbbing thro’ all thy heat and light,
Lo, falling from my constant mind,
Lo, parch’d and wither’d, deaf and blind,
I whirl like leaves in roaring wind.
Last night I wasted hateful hours
Below the city’s eastern towers:
I thirsted for the brooks, the showers:
I roll’d among the tender flowers:
I crush’d them on my breast, my mouth:
I looked athwart the burning drought
Of that long desert to the south.
Last night, when some one spoke his name,
From my swift blood that went and came
A thousand little shafts of flame
Were shiver’d in my narrow frame.
O Love, O fire! once he drew
With one long kiss my whole soul thro’
My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.
Before he mounts the hill, I know
He cometh quickly: from below
Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow
Before him, striking on my brow.
In my dry brain my spirit soon,
Down-deepening from swoon to swoon,
Faints like a dazzled morning moon.
The wind sounds like a silver wire,
And from beyond the noon a fire
Is pour’d upon the hills, and nigher
The skies stoop down in their desire;
And, isled in sudden seas of light,
My heart, pierc’d thro’ with fierce delight,
Bursts into blossom in his sight.
My whole soul waiting silently,
All naked in a sultry sky,
Droops blinded with his shining eye:
I will possess him or will die.
I will grow round him in his place,
Grow, live, die looking on his face,
Die, dying clasp’d in his embrace.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
NOW SLEEPS THE CRIMSON PETAL.
NOW sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font:
The firefly wakens: waken thou with me.
Now droops the milkwhite peacock like a ghost,
And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.
Now lies the Earth all Danaë to the stars,
And all thy heart lies open unto me.
Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.
Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,
And slips into the bosom of the lake;
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip
Into my bosom and be lost in me.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
THE WINDOW; OR THE SONGS OF THE WRENS.
AT THE WINDOW.
VINE, vine and eglantine,
Clasp her window, trail and twine!
Rose, rose and clematis,
Trail and twine and clasp and kiss,
Kiss, kiss; and make her a bower
All of flowers, and drop me a flower,
Drop me a flower.
Vine, vine and eglantine,
Cannot a flower, a flower, be mine?
Rose, rose and clematis,
Drop me a flower, a flower, to kiss,
Kiss, kiss—and out of her bower
All of flowers, a flower, a flower
Dropt, a flower.
GONE.
Gone!
Gone till the end of the year,
Gone, and the light gone with her and left me in shadow here!
Gone—flitted away,
Taken the stars from the night and the sun from the day!
Gone, and a cloud in my heart, and a storm in the air!
Flown to the east or the west, flitted I know not where!
Down in the south is a flash and a groan; she is there! she is there!
Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
VALENTINE.
IF thou canst make the frost be gone,
And fleet away the snow
(And that thou canst, I trow);
If thou canst make the spring to dawn,
Hawthorn to put her brav’ry on,
Willow, her weeds of fine green lawn,
Say why thou dost not so—
Aye, aye!
Say why
Thou dost not so!
If thou canst chase the stormy rack,
And bid the soft winds blow
(And that thou canst, I trow);
If thou canst call the thrushes back
To give the groves the songs they lack,
And wake the violet in thy track,
Say why thou dost not so—
Aye, aye!
Say why
Thou dost not so!
If thou canst make my winter spring,
With one word breathèd low
(And that thou canst, I know);
If in the closure of a ring
Thou canst to me such treasure bring,
My state shall be above a king,
Say why thou dost not so—
Aye, aye!
Say why
Thou dost not so!
Edith M. Thomas.
DREAM TRYST.
THE breaths of kissing night and day
Were mingled in the eastern heaven;
Throbbing with unheard melody
Shook Lyra all its star-chord seven:
When dusk shrunk cold, and light trod shy,
And dawn’s gray eyes were troubled gray;
And souls went palely up the sky,
And mine to Lucidé.
There was no change in her sweet eyes
Since last I saw those sweet eyes shine;
There was no change in her deep heart
Since last that deep heart knocked at mine.
Her eyes were clear, her eyes were Hope’s,
Wherein did ever come and go
The sparkle of the fountain-drops
From her sweet soul below.
The chambers in the house of dreams
Are fed with so divine an air,
That Time’s hoar wings grow young therein,
And they who walk there are most fair.
I joyed for me, I joyed for her,
Who with the Past meet girt about,
Where our last kiss still warms the air,
Nor can her eyes go out.
Francis Thompson.
ATALANTA.
WHEN spring grows old, and sleepy winds
Set from the south with odours sweet,
I see my love, in green, cool groves,
Speed down dusk aisles on shining feet.
She throws a kiss and bids me run,
In whispers sweet as roses’ breath;
I know I cannot win the race,
And at the end, I know, is death.
But joyfully I bare my limbs,
Anoint me with the tropic breeze,
And feel through every sinew thrill
The vigour of Hippomenes.
A race of love! We all have run
Thy happy course through groves of spring,
And cared not, when at last we lost,
For life, or death, or anything!
Maurice Thompson.
A SONG OF THANKSGIVING.
MY love is the flaming sword, to fight through the world;
Thy love is the shield to ward,
And the armour of the Lord,
And the banner of Heav’n unfurl’d.
Let my voice ring out, and over the earth,
Through all the grief and strife,
With a golden joy in a silver mirth,
Thank God for Life!
Let my voice swell out through the great abyss,
To the azure dome above,
With a chord of faith in the harp of bliss
Thank God for Love!
Let my voice thrill out, beneath and above,
The whole world through,
O my Love and Life, O my Life and Love,
Thank God for you!
James Thomson.
DAY AFTER DAY OF THIS AZURE MAY.
DAY after day of this azure May,
The blood of the spring has swelled in my veins;
Night after night of broad moonlight,
A mystical dream has dazzled my brains.
A seething might, a fierce delight,
The blood of the spring is the wine of the world;
My veins run fire and thrill desire,
Every leaf of my heart’s red rose uncurled.
A sad, sweet calm, a tearful balm,
The light of the moon is the trance of the world;
My brain is fraught with yearning thought,
And the rose is pale, and its leaves are furled.
Oh, speed the day then, dear, dear May,
And hasten the night, I charge thee, O June!
When the trance divine shall burn with the wine,
And the red rose unfurl all its fire to the moon.
James Thomson.
THE SONG OF TRISTRAM.
THE star of love is trembling in the west,
Night hears the desolate sea with moan on moan
Sigh for the storm, who on his mountain lone
Smites his wild harp, and dreams of her wild breast.
I am thy storm, Isolt, and thou my sea!
Isolt!
My passionate sea!
The storm to her wild breast, the passionate sea
To his fierce arms: we to the rapturous leap
Of mated spirits mingling in love’s deep,
Flame to flame, I to thee and thou to me!
Thou to mine arms, Isolt, I to thy breast!
Isolt!
I to thy breast!
John Todhunter.
AUBADE.
THE lights are out in the street, and a cool wind swings
Loose poplar plumes on the sky;
Deep in the gloom of the garden the first bird sings:
Curt, hurried steps go by,
Loud in the hush of the dawn past the linden screen,
Lost in a jar and a rattle of wheels unseen,
Beyond on the wide highway:
Night lingers dusky and dim in the pear-tree boughs,
Hangs in the hollows of leaves, though the thrushes rouse,
And the glimmering lawn grows gray.
Yours, my heart knoweth, yours only the jewelled gloom,
Splendours of opal and amber, the scent, the bloom,
Yours all, and your own demesne—
Scent of the dark, of the dawning, of leaves and dew;
Nothing that was but hath changed—’tis a world made new—
A lost world risen again.
The lamps are out in the street, and the air grows bright;
Come, lest the miracle fade in the broad, bare light,
The new world wither away:
Clear is your voice in my heart, and you call me—whence?
Come—for I listen, I wait,—bid me rise, go hence,
Or ever the dawn turn day.
Graham R. Tomson.
LOVE, THE GUEST.
I DID not dream that Love would stay,
I deemed him but a passing guest,
Yet here he lingers many a day.
I said, “Young Love will flee with May,
And leave forlorn the hearth he blest;”
I did not dream that Love would stay.
My envious neighbour mocks me, “Nay,
Love lies not long in any nest;”
Yet here he lingers many a day.
And though I did his will alway,
And gave him even of my best,
I did not dream that Love would stay.
I have no skill to bid him stay,
Of tripping tongue or cunning jest,
Yet here he lingers many a day.
Beneath his ivory feet I lay
Pale plumage of the ringdove’s breast;
I did not dream that Love would stay.
Will Love be flown? I ofttimes say,
Home turning for the noonday rest;
Yet here he lingers many a day.
His gold curls gleam, his lips are gay,
His eyes through tears smile loveliest;
I did not dream that Love would stay.
He sometimes sighs, when far away
The low red sun makes fair the west,
Yet here he lingers many a day.
Thrice blest of all men am I! yea,
Although of all unworthiest;
I did not dream that Love would stay,
Yet here he lingers many a day.
Graham R. Tomson.
A BLUSH AT FAREWELL.
HER tears are all thine own! how blest thou art!
Thine, too, the blush which no reserve can bind;
Thy farewell voice was as the stirring wind
That floats the rose-bloom; thou hast won her heart;
Dear are the hopes it ushers to thy breast;
She speaks not—but she gives her silent bond;
And thou mayst trust it, asking nought beyond
The promise, which as yet no words attest;
Deep in her bosom sinks the conscious glow,
And deep in thine! and I can well foresee,
If thou shalt feel a lover’s jealousy
For her brief absence, what a ruling power
A bygone blush shall prove! until the hour
Of meeting, when thy next love-rose shall blow.
Charles Tennyson Turner.
THE KISS OF BETROTHAL.
WHEN lovers’ lips from kissing disunite
With sound as soft as mellow fruitage breaking,
They loathe to leave what was so sweet in taking,
So fraught with breathless magical delight;
The scent of flowers is long before it fade,
Long dwells upon the gale the Vesper-tone,
Far floats the wake the lightest skiff has made,
The closest kiss when once imprest, is gone;
What marvel, then, that each so closely kisseth?
Sweet is the fourfold touch—the living seal—
What marvel then, with sorrow each dismisseth
This thrilling pledge of all they hope and feel?
While on their lingering steps the shadows steal,
And each true heart beats as the other wisheth.
Charles Tennyson Turner.
THE PARTING-GATE.
IN that old beech-walk, now bestrewn with mast,
And roaring loud—they linger’d long and late;
Harsh was the clang of the last homeward gate
That latch’d itself behind them, as they pass’d—
Then kiss’d and parted. Soon her funeral knell
Toll’d from a foreign clime; he did not talk
Nor weep, but shudder’d at that stern farewell;
’Twas the last gate in all their lovers’-walk
Without the kiss beyond it! Was it good
To leave him thus, alone with his sad mood
In that dear footpath, haunted by her smile?
Where they had laugh’d and loiter’d, sat and stood?
Alone in life! alone in Moreham wood!
Through all that sweet, forsaken, forest mile!
Charles Tennyson Turner.
IRISH LOVE SONG.
WOULD God I were the tender apple-blossom,
Floating and falling from the twisted bough,
To lie and faint within your silken bosom,
As that does now!
Or would I were a little burnished apple
For you to pluck me, gliding by so cold,
While sun and shade your robe of lawn will dapple,
Your hair’s spun gold.
Yea, would to God I were among the roses
That lean to kiss you as you float between!
While on the lowest branch a bud uncloses
To touch you, Queen!
Nay, since you will not love, would I were growing
A happy daisy in the garden path;
That so your silver foot might press me going,
Even unto death!
Katherine Tynan.
GOOD-NIGHT.
IT is over now, she is gone to rest;
I have clasped the hands on the quiet breast;
Draw back the curtain, let in the light,
She will never shrink if it be too bright.
We were two in here but an hour gone by,
No streak was then in the midnight sky;
Now I am one to watch the day
Come glimmering up from the far-away.
What will he say when he comes in,
Waked by the city’s morning din,
Hoping to find and fearing to know
The sorrow he left but an hour ago?
What will he say who has watched so long,
When he shall find who has come and gone?
Come a watcher that will not bide
Love’s morning or noon or eventide.
He thought to kiss her by morning gray,
But God has thought to take her away.
What will he say? God knows, not I;
“Good-night,” he said, but never “good-bye.”
C. C. Fraser Tytler.
I KNOW ’TIS LATE, BUT LET ME STAY.
I KNOW ’tis late, but let me stay,
For night is tenderer than day;
Sweet love, dear love, I cannot go;
Dear love, sweet love, I love thee so.
The birds are in the grove asleep,
The katydids shrill concert keep,
The woodbine breathes a fragrance rare
To please the dewy, languid air,
The fireflies twinkle in the vale,
The river shines in moonlight pale:
See yon bright star! choose it for thine,
And call its near companion mine;
Yon air-spun lace above the moon,—
’Twill veil her radiant beauty soon;
And look! a meteor’s dreamy light
Streams mystic through the solemn night.
Ah, life glides swift, like that still fire—
How soon our gleams of joy expire!
Who can be sure the present kiss
Is not his last? Make all of this.
I know ’tis late, dear love, I know,
Dear love, sweet love, I love thee so.
It cannot be the stealthy day
That turns the orient darkness gray;
Heardst thou? I thought or feared I heard
Vague twitters of some wakeful bird.
Nay, ’twas but summer in her sleep
Low murmuring from the leafy deep.
Fantastic mist obscurely fills
The hollows of Kentucky hills.
The wings of night are swift indeed!
Why makes the jealous morn such speed?
This rose thou wear’st may I not take
For passionate remembrance’ sake?
Press with thy lips its crimson heart.
Yes, blushing rose, we must depart.
A rose cannot return a kiss—
I pay its due with this, and this.
The stars grow faint, they soon will die,
But love fades not nor fails. Good-bye!
Unhappy joy—delicious pain—
We part in love, we meet again.
Good-bye! the morning dawns—I go;
Dear love, sweet love, I love thee so.
William H. Venable.
CASHEL OF MUNSTER.
I WOULD wed you, dear, without gold or gear, or counted kine;
My wealth you’ll be, would your friends agree, and you be mine.
My grief, my gloom! that you do not come, my heart’s dear hoard!
To Cashel fair, though our couch were there but a soft deal board.
Oh, come, my bride, o’er the wild hill-side to the valley low!
A downy bed for my love I’ll spread where waters flow,
And we shall stray where streamlets play, the groves among,
Where echo tells to the listening dells the blackbird’s song.
Love tender, true, I gave to you, and secret sighs,
In hope to see upon you and me one hour arise,
When the priest’s blest voice would bind my choice and the ring’s strict tie,
If wife you be, love, to one but me, love, in grief I’ll die!
A neck of white has my heart’s delight, and breast like snow,
And flowing hair whose ringlets fair to the green grass flow,
Alas! that I did not early die, before the day
That saw me here, from my bosom’s dear, far, far away!
Edward Walsh.
DAFFODILS.
I QUESTION with the amber daffodils,
Sheeting the floors of April, how she fares;
Where king-cup buds gleam out between the rills,
And celandine in wide gold beadlets glares.
By pastured brows and swelling hedgerow bowers,
From crumpled leaves the primrose bunches slip,
My hot face roll’d in their faint-scented flowers,
I dream her rich cheek rests against my lip.
All weird sensations of the fervent prime
Are like great harmonies, whose touch can move
The glow of gracious impulse: thought and time
Renew my love with life, my life with love.
When this old world new-born puts glories on,
I cannot think she never will be won.
John Leicester Warren.
AVE ATQUE VALE.
FAREWELL my Youth! for now we needs must part,
For here the paths divide;
Here hand from hand must sever, heart from heart,—
Divergence deep and wide.
You’ll wear no withered roses for my sake,
Though I go mourning for you all day long,
Finding no magic more in bower and brake,
No melody in song.
Gray Eld must travel in my company
To seal this severance more fast and sure.
A joyless fellowship, i’ faith, ’twill be,
Yet must we fare together, I and he,
Till I shall tread the footpath way no more.
But when a blackbird pipes among the boughs,
On some dim iridescent day in spring,
Then I may dream you are remembering
Our ancient vows.
Or when some joy foregone, some fate forsworn
Looks through the dark eyes of the violet,
I may recross the set, forbidden bourne, I may forget
Our long, long parting for a little while,
Dream of the golden splendours of your smile,
Dream you remember yet.
Rosamund Marriot Watson.
EPITAPH.
NOW lay thee down to sleep, and dream of me;
Though thou art dead and I am living yet,
Though cool thy couch and sweet thy slumbers be,
Dream—do not quite forget.
Sleep all the autumn, all the winter long,
With never a painted shadow from the past
To haunt thee; only, when the blackbird’s song
Wakens the woods at last,
When the young shoots grow lusty overhead,
Here, where the spring sun smiles, the spring wind grieves,
When budding violets close above thee spread
Their small heart-shapen leaves,
Pass, O Belovèd, to dreams from slumber deep;
Recount the store that mellowing time endears,
Tread, through the measureless mazes of thy sleep,
Our old unchangeful years.
Lie still and listen—while thy sheltering tree
Whispers of suns that rose, of suns that set—
For far-off echoes of the spring and me.
Dream—do not quite forget.
Rosamund Marriot Watson.
A GOLDEN HOUR.
A BECKONING spirit of gladness seemed afloat,
That lightly danced in laughing air before us:
The earth was all in tune, and you a note
Of Nature’s happy chorus.
’Twas like a vernal morn, yet overhead
The leafless boughs across the lane were knitting:
The ghost of some forgotten spring, we said,
O’er winter’s world comes flitting.
Or was it spring herself, that, gone astray,
Beyond the alien frontier chose to tarry?
Or but some bold outrider of the May,
Some April emissary?
The apparition faded on the air,
Capricious and incalculable comer.—
Wilt thou too pass, and leave my chill days bare,
And fall’n my phantom summer?
William Watson.
AND THESE—ARE THESE INDEED THE END?
AND these—are these indeed the end,
This grinning skull, this heavy loam?
Do all green ways whereby we wend
Lead but to yon ignoble home?
Ah, well! Thine eyes invite to bliss;
Thy lips are hives of summer still.
I ask not other worlds while this
Proffers me all the sweets I will.
William Watson.
A DREAM.
BENEATH the loveliest dream there coils a fear:
Last night came she whose eyes are memories now,
Her far-off gaze seemed all-forgetful how
Love dimmed them once, so calm they shone, and clear.
“Sorrow (I said) hath made me old, my dear;
’Tis I, indeed, but grief doth change the brow;
A love like mine a seraph’s neck might bow,
Vigils like mine would blanch an angel’s hair.”
Ah! then I saw, I saw the sweet lips move!
I saw the love-mists thickening in her eyes;
I heard wild wordless melodies of love,
Like murmur of dreaming brooks in Paradise;
And when upon my neck she fell, my dove,
I knew her hair, though heavy of amaranth-spice.
Theodore Watts.
THE FIRST KISS.
IF only in dreams may man be fully blest,
Is heav’n a dream? Is she I claspt a dream?
Or stood she here even now where dewdrops gleam,
And miles of furze shine golden down the West?
I seem to clasp her still,—still on my breast
Her bosom beats; I see the blue eyes beam:
I think she kissed these lips, for now they seem
Scarce mine, so hallow’d of the lips they press’d!
Yon thicket’s breath—can that be eglantine?
Those birds—can they be morning’s choristers?
Can this be earth? Can these be banks of furze?
Like burning bushes fired of God they shine!
I seem to know them, though this body of mine
Pass’d into spirit at the touch of hers.
Theodore Watts.
SUFFICIENCY.
A LITTLE love, of Heaven a little share,
And then we go—what matters it, since where,
Or when, or how, none may aforetime know,
Nor if Death cometh soon, or lingering slow,
Send on ahead his herald of Despair.
On this gray life Love lights with golden glow
Refracted from The Source, his bright wings throw
Its glory on us, if Fate grant our prayer,
A little love!
A little; ’tis as much as we can bear,
For Love is compassed with such magic air
Who breathes it fully dies; and knowing so,
The Gods all wisely but a taste bestow
For little lives; a little while they spare
A little love.
Gleeson White.
BENEDICITE.
GOD’s love and peace be with thee, where
Soe’er this soft autumnal air
Lifts the dark tresses of thy hair!
Whether through city casements comes
Its kiss to thee, in crowded rooms,
Or, out among the woodland blooms,
It freshens o’er thy thoughtful face,
Imparting, in its glad embrace,
Beauty to beauty, grace to grace!
Fair Nature’s book together read,—
The old wood-paths that knew our tread,
The maple shadows overhead,
The hills we climbed, the river seen
By gleams along its deep ravine,—
All keep thy memory fresh and green.
Where’er I look, where’er I stray,
Thy thought goes with me on my way,
And hence the prayer I breathe to-day;
O’er lapse of time and change of scene,—
The weary waste which lies between
Thyself and me, my heart I lean.
Thou lack’st not Friendship’s spell-word, nor
The half-unconscious power to draw
All hearts to thine by Love’s sweet law.
With these good gifts of God is cast
Thy lot, and many a charm thou hast
To hold the blessed angels fast.
If, then, a fervent wish for thee
The gracious heavens will heed from me,
What should, dear heart, its burden be?
The sighing of a shaken reed,—
What can I more than meekly plead
The greatness of our common need?
God’s love,—unchanging, pure, and true,—
The Paraclete white-shining through
His peace,—the fall of Hermon’s dew!
With such a prayer, on this sweet day,
As thou mayst hear and I may say,
I greet thee, dearest, far away!
John Greenleaf Whittier.
MY VIOLET.
WHEN violets blue begin to blow
Among the mosses fresh and green,
That grow the woodbine roots between,
I take my Violet out, and, oh!
Those cunning violets seem to know
A sweeter than themselves is nigh;
They greet her with a beaming eye,
And brighten where her footsteps go.
When summer glories light the glade
With gloss of green and gleam of gold,
And sunny sheens in wood and wold,
She loves to linger in the shade;
And such sweet light surrounds the maid,
That, somehow, it is fairer far
Where she and those dim shadows are,
Than where the sunbeams are displayed.
When every tree relinquisheth
Its garb of green for sombre brown,
And all the leaves are falling down,
While breezes blow with angry breath,
With gentle pitying voice she saith,
“Poor leaves! I wish you would not die;”
And at the sound they peaceful lie,
And wear a pleasant calm in death.
When winter frosts hold land and sea,
And barren want and bleaker wind
Leave every thought of good behind,
I look upon my love, and she
From thrall of winter sets me free;
And with a sense of perfect rest
I lay my head upon her breast,
And twenty summers shine for me.
J. T. Burton Wollaston.
ASLEEP.
LIDS closed and pale, with parted lips she lay;
Black on white pillows spread her hair unbound.
Awake, I watched her sleeping face, and found
Its beauty perfect in the breaking day.
Ah, then I knew that Love had passed away;
Alas! though with the entering sun that crowned
With light the beauty that mine arms enwound,
Came too the morning music of the bay.
I wept that Love had been and was no more,
That never shower nor sunlight should restore
The love that gave her life and heart to me;
While radiant in the outburst of the dawn,
Fresh as the wind that swept the mountain lawn,
Green April wantoned on the noisy sea.
Theodore Wratislaw.
SWIMMING SONG.
THE broad green rollers lift and glide
Beneath our hearts as, side by side,
We breast them blithely, blithely swim
Toward the far horizon’s rim.
The murmur of the land recedes,
The land of grief that aches and needs;
We only as we fall and rise
Drink deep the splendour of the skies.
O far blue heaven above our head,
O near green sea about us spread,
What joy so full, since time began,
Could earth, our mother, give to man?
Your bright face through the water peers
And laughs. “What need have men for tears?”
We say. The land is far and dim,
The world is summer’s, and we swim.
Your bright face peers and laughs. The sweet
Same joy fulfils us, hands and feet:
The same sea’s salt wet lips kiss ours:
We feel the same enraptured hours.
Out yonder! where our distant home
Beckons us from the crests of foam!
Out yonder through the roller’s mirth!
What part was ever ours with earth?
Your white limbs flash, your red lips gleam:
Love seems life’s best and holiest dream;
Nought comes between us here, and I
Could wish not otherwise to die.
With sea beneath us, heaven above,
Life holds but laughter, joy, and love;
No trammels bind us now, and we
Are freer than the birds are free.
Your face seems sweeter here; your hair,
Wet from the sea’s salt lips, more fair;
Your limbs that move and gleam and shine,
Hellenic, pagan, half divine.
If I should catch you now, make fast
Your hands with mine, about you cast
My limbs, and through the untroubled waves
Draw you down to the sea’s deep graves!
Ah, sweet! God’s gift is good enough,
God’s gift of freedom, life, and love—
Though but for this brief hour are we
Alone upon the eternal sea.
Theodore Wratislaw.
THE PEACE OF THE ROSE.
IF Michael, leader of God’s host,
When Heaven and Hell are met,
Looked down on you from Heaven’s door-post,
He would his deeds forget.
Brooding no more upon God’s wars
In his Divine homestead,
He would go weave out of the stars
A chaplet for your head;
And all folk seeing him bow down,
And white stars tell your praise,
Would come at last to God’s great town,
Led on by gentle ways;
And God would bid his warfare cease,
Saying all things were well,
And softly make a rosy peace,
A peace of Heaven and Hell.
W. B. Yeats.