I WILL not say my true love’s eyes
Outshine the noblest star;
But in their depth of lustre lies
My peace, my truce, my war.
I will not say upon her neck
Is white to shame the snow;
For if her bosom hath a speck
I would not have it go.
My love is as a woman sweet,
And as a woman white;
Who’s more than this is more than meet
For me and my delight.
Norman R. Gale.
A NOCTURNE.
KEEN winds of cloud and vaporous drift
Disrobe yon star, as ghosts that lift
A snowy curtain from its place,
To scan a pillowed beauty’s face.
They see her slumbering splendours lie
Bedded on blue unfathomed sky,
And swoon for love and deep delight,
And stillness falls on all the night.
Richard Garnett.
VIOLETS.
COLD blows the wind against the hill,
And cold upon the plain;
I sit me by the bank, until
The violets come again.
Here sat we when the grass was set
With violets shining through,
And leafing branches spread a net
To hold a sky of blue.
The trumpet clamoured from the plain,
The cannon rent the sky;
I cried, O Love, come back again,
Before the violets die!