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.
VILLANELLE.
Come! to the woods, love, let us go!
Let us go pluck the purple flowers,
And rest where rosy blossoms blow.
'Twixt glade and shade the sun shall throw
A halo round the laughing hours;—
Come! to the woods, love, let us go!
There are dim nooks the Dryads know,
And we can hide in hawthorn-bowers,
And rest where rosy blossoms blow.
Shall not the fairies passing strow
On us the dainty petal-showers?
Come! to the woods, love, let us go.
And we will roam by rills that flow
'Neath skies from which no tempest lowers;
We'll rest where rosy blossoms blow.
Come, heart! Come, sweetheart, even so
Life's holiest rapture shall be ours;—
Come! to the woods, love, let us go,
And rest where rosy blossoms blow.