THOMAS ASHE.

1836-1889.

NO AND YES. I f 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.
AT ALTENAHR. 1872. Meet we no angels, Pansie? C ame, 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?

MARIT.
1869-70. C’est un songe que d’y penser. M y 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. 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.