Just the old, old story
Of light and shade,
Love like the opal tender,
Like it may be to vary—
May be to fade.
Just the old tender story,
Just a glimpse of morning glory
In an earthly Paradise,
With shadowy reflections
In a pair of sweet brown eyes.
Brown eyes a man might well
Be proud to win!
Open to hold his image,
Shut under silken lashes,
Only to shut him in.
O glad eyes, look together,
For life's dark, stormy weather
Grows to a fairer thing
When young eyes look upon it
Through a slender wedding ring.
Richard Doddridge Blackmore [1825-1900]
LOVE
All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
All are but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.
Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I lay,
Beside the ruined tower.
The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene,
Had blended with the lights of eve;
And she was there, my hope, my joy,
My own dear Genevieve!
She leaned against the armed man,
The statue of the armed Knight;
She stood and listened to my lay,
Amid the lingering light.
Few sorrows hath she of her own,
My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!
She loves me best whene'er I sing
The songs that make her grieve.