Pale cloisterers, have you lost so soon
The way to blush? Do you forget
How once, beneath the enamored moon,
You climbed against the parapet,
To touch the breast of Juliet
Warm with a kiss, wet with a tear,
In gardens of the Capulet,
Far south, my flowers, not here—not here?
THE WINDS OF DAWN
Whither do ye blow?
For now the moon is low.
Whence is it that ye come,
And where is it ye go?
All night the air was still,
The crickets' song was shrill;
But now there runs a hum
And rustling through the trees.
A breath of coolness wakes,
As on Canadian lakes,
And on Atlantic seas,
And each high Alpine lawn
Begin the winds of dawn.
ANACREONTIC
I would not be
A voyager on the windy seas:
More sweet to me
This bank where crickets chirp, and bees
Buzz drowsy sunshine minstrelsies.
I would not bide
On lonely heights where shepherds dwell.
At twilight tide
The sounds that from the valley swell,
Soft breathing lute and herdsman's bell,
Are sweeter far
Than music of cold mountain rills.
The evening star
Wakes love and song below, but chills
With mist and breeze the gloomy hills.
I would not woo
Some storm-browed Juno, queenly fair.
Soft eyes of blue
And sudden blushes unaware
Do net my heart in silken snare.
I do not love
The eyrie, but low woodland nest
Of cushat dove:
Not wind, but calm; not toil, but rest
And sleep in grassy meadow's breast.