Hold me no longer for a word
I used to say or sing;
Ah! long ago you must have heard
So many a sweeter thing:
For rich earth must have reached your heart,
And turned the faith to flowers;
And warm wind stolen, part by part,
Your soul through faithless hours.
And many a soft seed must have won
Soil of some yielding thought,
To bring a bloom up to the sun
That else had ne’er been brought;
And doubtless many a passionate hue
Hath made that place more fair,
Making some passionate part of you
Faithless to me down there.
Arthur O’Shaughnessy.
SONG.
HAS summer come without the rose,
Or left the bird behind?
Is the blue changed above thee,
O world! or am I blind?
Will you change every flower that grows,
Or only change this spot,
Where she who said, I love thee,
Now says, I love thee not?
The skies seemed true above thee,
The rose true on the tree;
The bird seemed true the summer through,
But all proved false to me.
World, is there one good thing in you,
Life, love, or death—or what?
Since lips that sang, I love thee,
Have said, I love thee not?
I think the sun’s kiss will scarce fall
Into one flower’s gold cup;
I think the bird will miss me,
And give the summer up.
O sweet place! desolate in tall
Wild grass, have you forgot
How her lips loved to kiss me
Now that they kiss me not?
Be false or fair above me,
Come back with any face,
Summer! do I care what you do?
You cannot change one place—
The grass, the leaves, the earth, the dew,
The grave I make this spot—
Here, where she used to love me,
Here, where she loves me not.
Arthur O’Shaughnessy.
SUPREME SUMMER.
O HEART full of song in the sweet song-weather,
A voice fills each bower, a wing shakes each tree,
Come forth, O winged singer, on song’s fairest feather,
And make a sweet fame of my love and of me.
The blithe world shall ever have fair loving leisure,
And long is the summer for bird and for bee;
But too short the summer and too keen the pleasure
Of me kissing her and of her kissing me.