LOVE’S OLD SWEET SONG
A SHEAF OF LATTER-DAY LOVE-POEMS
GARNERED FROM MANY SOURCES

Books by the Same Author

——

The Garden’s Story, or Pleasures and Trials of an Amateur Gardener

The Story of My House

In Gold and Silver

The Rose. By H. B. Ellwanger. Revised edition, with an Introduction by George H. Ellwanger.

Idyllists of the Country-Side

Love’s Demesne

Meditations on Gout

The Pleasures of the Table

Copyright, 1903,
By Dodd, Mead and Company.
All rights reserved.
Copyright, 1896,
By Dodd, Mead and Company,
as “Love’s Demesne.”
University Press:
John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A.
TO
THE MEMORY OF
GLEESON WHITE, ESQ.
In Friendliest Regard

ENVOY.

RESOUND, ye strains, attuned by master-fingers,
That breathe so fondly Love’s consuming fire;
Some sweet and subtle as a chord that lingers,
Some grave and plaintive as the heart’s desire.

Like June’s gay laughter thro’ the woodlands ringing,
These hymn the Present’s gladsome roundelay;
As Autumn grieves when choirs have ceased their singing,
Those voice their haunting burden, “Well-a-day!”

Yet, past or present, who the power would banish
That charms or blights, that blesses or that mars:
To happy lovers, how may Love e’er vanish,—
To hearts forlorn, how hallowed are his scars!

PUBLISHERS’ NOTE.

IN this Anthology is included in more convenient form the greater portion of the poems contained in the two volumes entitled “Love’s Demesne,” now out of print. The present collection has been carefully revised by the Compiler, and like its predecessor occupies an entirely distinct field, most of the selections being otherwise only accessible in the volumes where they originally appeared, and the major part being by living lyrists.

ACKNOWLEDGMENT.

THE sincere thanks of the Editor are due, not only to those American authors who have graciously allowed the reproduction of their poems, but equally to the numerous British living poets whose graceful verses appear in the following pages. In but one instance on the part of a native author, and in but one instance on the part of a publisher, was permission to include poems refused. With these exceptions the Compiler has received the most cordial assistance from holders of copyrights. It becomes a personal pleasure, therefore, to thank the following in particular for their uniform courtesy, without which many a flowing measure contained in “Love’s Old Sweet Song” must necessarily have been omitted: Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Roberts Bros., Charles Scribner’s Sons, Macmillan & Co., G. P. Putnam’s Sons, Stone & Kimball, J. G. Cupples, Belford, Clarke & Co., D. Lothrop & Co., Copeland & Day, Henry Holt & Co., R. Worthington & Co., Way & Williams, Longmans, Green & Co. To these and other publishers, to the sonorous choir of the poets quoted from, and, finally, to Mr. Gleeson White and Mr. Edmund Clarence Stedman, the Compiler tenders his most grateful acknowledgments.

A PASSING WORD.

BEARING in mind the assertion of Monsieur de Milcourt, that prefaces for the most part seem only made in order to “impose” upon the reader, a brief foreword will suffice to explain the scope of the following pages.

As will be apparent at a glance, the selections are all from modern, and largely from living poets; the dominant chord is lyrical; and in the general unisance the minor prevails over the major key. No excuse seems called for in presenting a new anthology; for, given the same theme, each compiler must of necessity present a different score, subject to individual taste and preferences. “To apologize for a new anthology is but one degree less sensible than to prepare it,” pertinently remarks the editor of Ballades and Rondeaus. Such were but another case of qui s’excuse, s’accuse. It may be observed, nevertheless, that the path of the compiler is far from being strewn with flowers. Indeed, it has been truly said that Æsop’s old man and boy with the donkey had not a harder task than the maker of selections and collections of verses.

Of recent years a number of excellent anthologies have been published on a similar theme. But these deal mainly with the rhythmic fancies of the elder bards, or in fewer instances, combine the older and the younger schools. In the present instance the editor has been guided solely by his own taste or predilections, having had no recourse to other collections, beyond that of avoiding excerpta too oft repeated; the aim being so far as possible to include such examples of merit as are not generally familiar to the average lover of poetry. Whether these be by well-known authors, or by those who are little known, has not entered into consideration, the prime object being to present as intrinsically meritorious a collection, by both British and American modern lyrists, as is possible within the limits of the space at command.

The writer is not aware of a similar compilation having been previously attempted, there being few who would care to brave the “omissions” that must naturally be thrust at one’s door, more especially in the case of an abstract from the works of living writers. Yet while fault may be found, perchance, on the score of selection both by those who may be excluded, as well as by those who are included, the editor of an anthology should at least be thanked for placing many selections before the reader that in the ordinary course of things he would miss,—either through lack of time, or the inability to possess or consult the multitudinous volumes he would be called upon to peruse.

“The purchasing public for poetry,” says Mr. Lang, “must now consist chiefly of poets, and they are usually poor.” The anthologist is the bee, therefore, to extract the honey from the fragrant garland of song, at the least fatigue to the reader. For every poet has not a hive of sweets to draw from; and though the blooms be many in the parterre of poesy, still these require to be plucked with reference not only to individual beauty, but to general harmony as well. A single line may sadly mar an otherwise flawless verse, as a single sonnet rendered immortal the name of Félix Arvers. Many no doubt will miss some favourites. Of such it may be observed that not a few lovely apostrophes have been omitted on account of too great length, or, as previously stated, owing to their being familiar to the great majority of readers. Some poems, moreover, beautiful in themselves, have not been included, despite their intrinsic merits, because they seemed to be out of accord with the prevailing key, as in the case of numerous lyrics approaching the form of so-termed Vers de Société. Still others, and many of these extremely beautiful amatory poems, somewhat free in motif or treatment, have been excluded as not fulfilling the precise requirements of the present collection; these were more appropriate grouped in a volume by themselves.

A few translations only have been admitted; the satisfactory translation of verse being an art by itself, demanding special qualifications possessed only by the few. But though it is not often that a rendition does not suffer when compared with its original, it is equally true that in some hands a transcription may equal if not surpass its prototype. Witness, for example, Mr. Andrew Lang’s graceful stanzas entitled “An Old Tune,” adapted from Gérard de Nerval’s dreamy Fantaisie, and which although very closely rendered fully equal the original in colour and fragrance, while surpassing it in melodiousness and rhythm. Nearly as much might be said of Mr. Edmund Gosse’s version of Théophile de Viau’s lovely sonnet, Au moins ay-ie songé que ie vous ay baisée, as also of the late Thomas Ashe’s phrasing of Ma vie a son secret, mon âme a son mystère, which has been so variously rendered by various translators.

With Waller’s “Go, lovely rose,” Herrick’s “Gather ye roses,” Ford’s “There is a lady sweet and kind,” and many another harmonious measure of Lily, Lodge, Lovelace, Campion, Carew, and the rest of them ringing in our ears, what comparison shall be made with the modern laureates of love? Whether the latter indeed chant as sweetly as the Elizabethan meistersingers and their successors under the Restoration, is a question it were perhaps wiser to pass, from lack of space to dwell upon, leaving the reader to form his own opinion. There are those who hold to the contrary; there are others who in the best of existent love-poetry find conceits as colourful, rhythm as resonant, and inspiration as melodious as is still echoed from the sweetest strains of the Elizabethan lyre. Rather, to each let that merit be accorded which is its due. The old songs, like all truly beautiful things of eld, possess the puissant stamp of endurance and the approval of the centuries, added to that indefinable charm which age alone may impart; the new must yet be mellowed and adjudged by Time.

It must be remembered, too, that it is the best of the ancient songs we know and love so well; that if the entire verse of almost any olden bard be closely scanned, it will be found, in very numerous instances, of a widely uneven quality, with many a limping line, strained conceit, or halting measure to offend. Song did not mount to the strain of merle or mavis, or sing itself in the past with greater ease than is the case at present. Greater freedom it possessed; and in the method more than in the matter the chief distinction lies. This distinction between the past-masters and the bards of the present is deftly set forth by Edmund Gosse in his poem, “Impression,”—

. . . . . . . . . .
“If we could dare to write as ill
As some whose voices haunt us still,
Even we, perchance, might call our own
Their deep enchanting undertone.

We are too diffident and nice,
Too learnèd and too overwise,
Too much afraid of faults to be
The flutes of bold sincerity.

For, as this sweet life passes by,
We blink and nod with critic eye;
We’ve no words rude enough to give
Its charm so frank and fugitive.”
. . . . . . . . . .

The term “ill” which is applied to the ancient versifiers in the above lines were perhaps better rendered by the qualification “bold.” It is in this boldness, vigour, and fire that the distinguishing difference largely consists. And in the striving for new effects, when the present aims to reproduce the past, these qualities are usually lacking in their pristine fervour; while the latter-day impressionist and symbolist is frequently so vague as to be well-nigh unintelligible.

The sentiment underlying the expression of the lyrist of to-day does not differ materially, after all, from that of his remote predecessor. The pitch and timbre of modern poetry are somewhat altered, to be sure. There is less personality, less freedom,—shall I say a certain naïve grace and spontaneous virility are wanting in existent verse as compared with Elizabethan song? though in general the latter-day lyrist is the superior craftsman in rhyme. The most marked variation between the two periods is that the so-called Elizabethan poets for the most part wrote their songs to be sung,—“music married to immortal verse.” The lilt and blitheness of these are individual; and these qualities we are apt to miss, in their primal grace, in many a love-song of the present.

So far as the prevailing spirit of love itself is concerned, this has undergone no change, unless that evolved by the natural refining processes of time. Human nature must be human nature still; and passion in the human heart exists unaltered in its essence. We may not have another Herrick, nor may we summon another Tennyson; the breeze of summer blows not twice alike in its passage through the woodland keys. But there must always remain new chords to be sounded while the most potent of verbs remains to be conjugated. The poets pass away, yet Love is ever new; and so long as the seasons endure and new days dawn, the tuneful choir will chant in infinite variation,—

“Methinks no leaf would ever bud in spring,
But for the lovers’ lips that kiss, the poets’ lips that sing.”

The darts of Eros’ quiver are just as numerous and deftly feathered as of yore. Only there are more hearts to hit, with proportionally more registrars to chronicle the passage of his shafts. Still, as of old, the exhortation, Carpe Diem! reverberates through the poet’s page; the rose likewise hath not lost her fragrance, or the violet her perfume; and still, despite stings and thorns, kisses and favours remain sweet things.

Writing love-lyrics is less a momentous occupation now than in the times of doublet and hose. It is fair to assume, notwithstanding, that many a charming fantasy in verse, many an ethereal flight winged from modern lover to modern mistress, never sees the light of the printed page, as was far less the case in ancient days; but remains inviolate with the person by whom it was inspired. Could we obtain access to many passionate apostrophes that exist but in manuscript alone, cherished or known only by the sender and recipient, what a fragrant garland were ours!

Recurring to the comparison already touched upon, Cupid and Campaspe have not ceased to play their game of cards; while the admonition to Lesbia to “live and love” will continue to be current coin amid the “golden cadences” of all time. For,

“What to him is snow or rime,
Who calls his love his own?”

It were difficult, in truth, to wrest from Waller his “girdle” of immortal fame, or for any twentieth-century laureate to excel Jonson’s spirited pledge, “To Celia,” or to vie with the sublime strain of Herrick’s “Bid me to live.” And who shall surpass the delicate lacelike grace of Lodge’s “Love in my bosom like a bee,” “My bonny lass! thine eye,” and his still more impassioned rendition of the charms of “Rosalind”?

Who, too, shall outsoar the plumèd flight of Heywood’s “Pack clouds away,” or transcend the birdlike carol of Davenant, “The lark now leaves his wat’ry nest”? And where shall we look for a rival to Marvell’s “Had we but world enough and time,” or the music and dainty conceit of Carew’s “Ask me no more where Jove bestows”? These, and how many, many more, pulsate with the sweetness and plaintiveness of a zither touched by master fingers. Reading them as they attune and chant themselves despite the lapse of centuries, they recall the picture Glapthorne so vividly depicts of a Gentleman playing on the Lute:—

“Whose numerous fingers whiter farre
Than Venus swans or ermines are
Wag’d with the amorous strings a Warre,
But such a Warre as did invite
The sense of Hearing, and the Sight
To riot in a full delight.”

A review of the following pages, on the other hand, will disclose many a delicious wild-flower that, alike in form and hue, is a stranger to the gardens of the past. It is perhaps unfair to individualise; but for the sake of comparison solely, a few instances may be cited with no disparagement to the excellence of the whole of which they form a part. So far as musical sweetness of tone, elevated sentiment, and facility of rhythmic utterance are concerned, Tennyson and Swinburne stand unequalled in their special spheres. The short lyric, however, does not occur nearly as frequently with the latter as with the former, who abounds in pure love-lays, fluid and tender as a thrush’s song. What more fragrantly exquisite than “Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white,” or indeed the scores of amoretti with which he has added to “golden numbers, golden numbers”! With Shakespeare and Milton a master of the sonnet, a large portion of Rossetti’s shorter pieces have been expressed in this his favourite vehicle of verse. Surely the music of song, even though it be in sonnet form, has not suffered a decline when such impassioned chords are heard as vibrate amid “The House of Life.” But acting on prescribed lines, the sonnet in consequence has been but sparingly employed in this collection.

Surely, too, there is a grace as fine as that of the choir of Elizabeth and James, in such airy flights as, “Love on my heart from heaven fell,” “Sweetheart, sigh no more,” “I breathe my heart in the heart of the rose,” and “Up, up, my heart!” Again, we must search long for as powerful a love lyric as Splendide Mendax, or the haunting cadences that rise and fall, sonata-like, throughout “A Dead March.” And how exquisite the simple lines to a star of Mr. Garnett, the rhapsody “Oh to think, oh to think” of Mr. Gale, Mr. Bridges’ “Long are the hours the sun is above,” Mathilde Blind’s “I charge you, O winds of the West,” Arthur O’Shaughnessy’s “Has summer come without the rose,” or the chivalrous notes of Mr. Pollock’s “It is not mine to sing the stately grace”! And these are not exceptions or individual instances, but merely a few examples taken at random for the sake of illustration. It is more the lack of the musicians, it would seem, than any want of suitable pieces to be set to music, that must account for the decadence of “Song” proper, since the ancient days of lute and lyre.

No great poet sings because he must sing, we are told; a great poet sings because he chooses to sing. Let us thank the truly great, therefore, for so choosing, and the lesser in proportion, on the principle of receiving all favours thankfully according to their merit and degree. Meanwhile, in the various phases of Love as portrayed so musically by the full-throated choir in the subjoined pages, the reader may peradventure read and learn. For, as voiced by Owen Meredith,—

“To mock the faith that lovers place
In life’s acquired love lore,
New lessons, latest-learned, efface
Old teachings taught before.”

G. H. E.

LOVE’S OLD SWEET SONG.

SINCE YESTERDAY.

THE mavis sang but yesterday
A strain that thrilled through autumn’s dearth;
He read the music of his lay
In light and leaf, and heaven and earth;
The wind-flowers by the wayside swung,
Words of the music that was sung.

In all his song the shade and sun
Of earth and heaven seemed to meet;
Its joy and sorrow were as one,
Its very sadness was but sweet.
He sang of summers yet to be;
You listened to his song with me.

The heart makes sunshine in the rain,
Or winter in the midst of May;
And though the mavis sings again
His self-same song of yesterday,
I find no gladness in his tone:
To-day I listen here alone.

And—even our sunniest moment takes
Such shadows of the bliss we knew—
To-day his throbbing song awakes
But wistful, haunting thoughts of you;
Its very sweetness is but sad:
You gave it all the joy it had.
A. St. J. Adcock.

AN AWAKENING.

LOVE had forgotten and gone to sleep;
Love had forgotten the present and past.
I was so glad when he ceased to weep;
“Now he is quiet,” I whispered, “at last.”

What sent you here on that night of all nights,
Breaking his slumber, dreamless and deep,
Just as I whispered below my breath,
“Love has forgotten and gone to sleep”?

Anne Reeve Aldrich.

LOVE, THE DESTROYER.

LOVE is a Fire;
Nor Shame nor Pride can well withstand Desire.
“For what are they,” we cry, “that they should dare
To keep, O Love, the haughty look they wear?
Nay, burn the victims, O thou sacred Fire,
That with their death thou mayst but flame the higher.
Let them feel once the fierceness of thy breath,
And make thee still more beauteous with their death.”

Love is a Fire;
But ah, how short-lived is the flame Desire!
Love, having burnt whatever once we cherished,
And blackened all things else, itself hath perished.
And now alone in gathering night we stand,
Ashes and ruin stretch on either hand;
Yet while we mourn, our sad hearts whisper low:
“We served the mightiest God that man can know.”

Anne Reeve Aldrich.

SWEETHEART, SIGH NO MORE.

IT was with doubt and trembling
I whispered in her ear.
Go, take her answer, bird-on-bough,
That all the world may hear—
Sweetheart, sigh no more!

Sing it, sing it, tawny throat,
Upon the wayside tree,
How fair she is, how true she is,
How dear she is to me—
Sweetheart, sigh no more!

Sing it, sing it, tawny throat,
And through the summer long
The winds among the clover-tops,
And brooks, for all their silvery stops,
Shall envy you the song—
Sweetheart, sigh no more!

Thomas Bailey Aldrich.

THE FADED VIOLET.

WHAT thought is folded in thy leaves!
What tender thought, what speechless pain!
I hold thy faded lips to mine,
Thou darling of the April rain!

I hold thy faded lips to mine,
Though scent and azure tint are fled—
O dry, mute lips! ye are the type
Of something in me cold and dead:

Of something wilted like thy leaves;
Of fragrance flown, of beauty dim;
Yet for the love of those white hands
That found thee by a river’s brim—

That found thee when thy dewy mouth
Was purpled as with stains of wine—
For love of her who love forgot,
I hold thy faded lips to mine.

That thou shouldst live when I am dead,
When hate is dead, for me, and wrong,
For this I use my subtlest art,
For this I fold thee in my song.

Thomas Bailey Aldrich.

SONG.

NAY! if thou must depart, thou shalt depart;
But why so soon, oh, heart-blood of my heart!
Go then! Yet, going, turn and stay thy feet,
That I may once more see that face so sweet.

Once more—if never more; for swift days go
As hastening waters from their fountains flow;
And whether yet again shall meeting be
Who knows? Who knows? Ah! turn once more to me!

Sir Edwin Arnold.

CALAIS SANDS.

A THOUSAND knights have rein’d their steeds
To watch this line of sand hills run,
Along the never-silent strait,
To Calais, glittering in the sun.

To look tow’rd Ardres’ Golden Field
Across the wide aerial plain,
Which glows as if the Middle Age
Were gorgeous upon earth again.

Oh, that to share this famous scene,
I saw, upon the open sand,
Thy lovely presence at my side,
Thy shawl, thy look, thy smile, thy hand!

How exquisite thy voice would come,
My darling, on this lonely air!
How sweetly would the fresh sea-breeze
Shake loose some band of soft brown hair!

Yet now my glance but once hath roved
O’er Calais and its famous plain;
To England’s cliffs my gaze is turn’d,
On the blue strait mine eyes I strain.

Thou comest! Yes! the vessel’s cloud
Hangs dark upon the rolling sea.
Oh, that yon sea-bird’s wings were mine,
To win one instant’s glimpse of thee!

I must not spring to grasp thy hand,
To woo thy smile, to seek thine eye;
But I may stand far off, and gaze,
And watch thee pass unconscious by,

And spell thy looks, and guess thy thoughts,
Mixt with the idlers on the pier.—
Ah, might I always rest unseen,
So I might have thee always near!

To-morrow hurry through the fields
Of Flanders to the storied Rhine!
To-night those soft-fringed eyes shall close
Beneath one roof, my queen! with mine.

Matthew Arnold.

PHANTOMS.

MY days are full of pleasant memories
Of all those women sweet
Whom I have known! How tenderly their eyes
Flash thro’ the days—too fleet!—
Which long ago went by with sun and rain,
Flowers, or the winter snow;
And still thro’ memory’s palace-halls are fain
In rustling robes to go!
Or wed, or widow’d, or with milkless breasts,
Around those women stand,
Like mists that linger on the mountain crests
Rear’d in a phantom land;
And love is in their mien and in their look,
And from their lips a stream
Of tender words flows, smooth as any brook,
And softer than a dream:
And one by one, holding my hands, they say
Things of the years agone;
And each head will a little turn away,
And each one still sigh on,
Because they think such meagre joy we had;
For love was little bold,
And youth had store, and chances to be glad,
And squander’d so his gold.
Blue eyes, and gray, and blacker than the sloe,
And dusk and golden hair,
And lips that broke in kisses long ago,
Like sun-kiss’d flowers are there;
And warm fireside, and sunny orchard wall,
And river-brink and bower,
And wood and hill, and morning and day-fall,
And every place and hour!
And each on each a white unclouded brow
Still as a sister bends,
As they would say, “Love makes us kindred now,
Who sometime were his friends.”

Thomas Ashe.

THE GUEST.

LIGHTS Love, the timorous bird, to dwell,
While summer smiles, a guest with you?
Be wise betimes and use him well,
And he will stay in winter too:
For you can have no sweeter thing
Within the heart’s warm nest to sing.

The blue-plumed swallows fly away,
Ere autumn gilds a leaf; and then
Have wit to find another day
The little clay-built house again:
He will not know, a second spring,
His last year’s nest, if Love take wing.

Thomas Ashe.

THE SECRET.
From the French of Félix Arvers.

MY life its secret and its mystery has,
A love eternal in a moment born;
There is no hope to help my evil case,
And she knows naught who makes me thus forlorn.

And I unmark’d shall ever by her pass
Aye at her side, and yet for aye alone;
And I shall waste my bitter days, alas!
And never dare to claim my love my own!

And she whom God has made so sweet and dear,
Will go her way, distraught, and never hear
This murmur round her of my love and pain;

To austere duty true, will go her way,
And read these verses full of her, and say,
“Who is this woman that he sings of then?”

Thomas Ashe.

IF LOVE COULD LAST!

IF Love could last, if Love could last,
The Future be as was the Past,
Nor faith and fondness ever know
The chill of dwindling afterglow,
Oh, then we should not have to long
For cuckoo’s call and throstle’s song,
But every season then would ring
With rapturous voices of the spring.
In budding brake and grassy glade
The primrose then would never fade,
The windflower flag, the bluebell haze
Faint from the winding woodland ways,
But vernal hopes chase wintry fears,
And happy smiles and happier tears
Be like the sun and clouds at play,—
If Love could last!

If Love could last, the rose would then
Not bloom but once, to fade again.
June to the lily would not give
A life less fair than fugitive,
But flower and leaf and lawn renew
Their freshness nightly with the dew.
In forest dingles, dim and deep,
Where curtained noonday lies asleep,
The faithful ringdove ne’er would cease
Its anthem of abiding peace.
All the year round we then should stray
Through fragrance of the new-mown hay,
Or sit and ponder old-world rhymes
Under the leaves of scented limes.
Careless of time, we should not fear
The footsteps of the fleeting year,
Or, did the long warm days depart,
’Twould still be summer in our heart,—
Did Love but last!

Did Love but last, no shade of grief
For fading flower, for falling leaf,
For stubbles whence the piled-up wain
Hath borne away the golden grain,
Leaving a load of loss behind,
Would shock the heart and haunt the mind.
With mellow gaze we then should see
The ripe fruit shaken from the tree,
The swallows troop, the acorns fall,
The last peach redden on the wall,
The oasthouse smoke, the hopbine burn,
Knowing that all good things return
To Love that lasts!

If Love could last, who then would mind
The freezing rack, the unfeeling wind,
The curdling pool, the shivering sedge,
The empty nest in leafless hedge,
Brown dripping bents and furrows bare,
The wild geese clamouring through the air,
The huddling kine, the sodden leaves,
Lack-lustre dawns and clammy eves?
For then through twilight days morose
We should within keep warm and close,
And by the friendly fireside blaze
Talk of the ever-sacred days
When first we met, and felt how drear
Were life without the other near;
Or, too at peace with bliss to speak,
Sit hand in hand, and cheek to cheek,—
If Love could last!

Yet Love Can Last.

Yet Love can last, yes, Love can last,
The Future be as was the Past,
And faith and fondness never know
The chill of dwindling afterglow,
If to familiar hearth there cling
The virgin freshness of the spring,
And April’s music still be heard
In wooing voice and winning word.
If when autumnal shadows streak
The furrowed brow, the wrinkled cheek,
Devotion, deepening to the close,
Like fruit that ripens, tenderer grows;
If, though the leaves of youth and hope
Lie thick on life’s declining slope,
The fond heart, faithful to the last,
Lingers in love-drifts of the past;
If, with the gravely shortening days,
Faith trims the lamp, Faith feeds the blaze,
And Reverence, robed in wintry white,
Sheds fragrance like a summer night,—
Then Love can last!

Alfred Austin.

A JOURNEY.

THE same green hill, the same blue sea,—
Yet, love, thou art no more to me!

The same long reach of yellow sand,—
Where is the touch of thy soft hand?

The same wide open arch of sky,—
But, sweetheart, thou no more art nigh!

God love thee and God keep thee strong:
I breathe that pure prayer through my song!

I send my soul across the waste
To seek and find thy soul in haste!

Across the inland woods and glades,
And through the leaf-laced checkered shades,

My spirit passes, seeking thee;
No more I tarry by the sea.

For where thou art am I for ever;
Mere space and time divide us never.

George Barlow.

IF ONLY THOU ART TRUE.

IF only a single Rose is left,
Why should the summer pine?
A blade of grass in a rocky cleft;
A single star to shine.
—Why should I sorrow if all be lost,
If only thou art mine?

If only a single Bluebell gleams
Bright on the barren heath,
Still of that flower the summer dreams,
Not of his August wreath.
—Why should I sorrow if thou art mine,
Love, beyond change and death?

If only once on a wintry day
The sun shines forth in the blue,
He gladdens the groves till they laugh as in May
And dream of the touch of the dew.
—Why should I sorrow if all be false,
If only thou art true?

George Barlow.

THE ECSTASY OF THE HAIR.

I’D send a troop of kisses to entangle
And lose themselves in labyrinths of hair,—
Thy deep dark night of hair with stars to spangle,
And each, a firefly’s tiny lamp, to dangle
Amid the tresses of that forest fair.
A perfume seems to blossom into air;
The ecstasy that hangs about the tresses,
Their blush, their overflow, their breath, their bloom;
A wind that gently lifts them and caresses,
And wings itself and floats about the room;
The beauty that the flame of youth expresses,
A tender fire, too tender to consume,
Which, seizing all my soul, pervades, possesses,
And mingleth in a subtly sweet perfume.

George Barlow.

THE NIGHT WATCHES.

COME, oh, come to me, voice or look, or spirit or dream, but, oh, come now;
All these faces that crowd so thick are pale and cold and dead—Come thou,
Scatter them back to the ivory gate and be alone and rule the night.

Surely all worlds are nothing to Love, for Love to flash thro’ the night and come;
Hither and thither he flies at will, with thee he dwelleth—there is his home.
Come, O Love, with a voice, a message; haste, O Love, on thy wings of light.

Love, I am calling thee, Love, I am calling; dost thou not hear my crying, sweet?
Does not the live air throb with the pain of my beating heart, till thy heart beat?—
Surely momently thou wilt be here, surely, O sweet Love, momently.

No, my voice would be all too faint, too faint, when it reached Love’s ear, tho’ the night is still,
Fainter ever and fainter grown o’er hill and valley and valley and hill,
There where thou liest quietly sleeping, and Love keeps watch as the dreams flit by.

Ah, my thought so subtle and swift, can it not fly till it reach thy brain,
And whisper there some faint regret for a weary watch and a distant pain?—
Not too loud, to awake thy slumber; not too tender, to make thee weep;

Just so much for thy head to turn on the pillow so, and understand
Dimly, that a soft caress has come long leagues from a weary land,
Turn and half remember and smile, and send a kiss on the wings of sleep.

H. C. Beeching.

IN A ROSE GARDEN.

A HUNDRED years from now, dear heart,
We will not care at all.
It will not matter then a whit,
The honey or the gall.
The summer days that we have known
Will all forgotten be and flown;
The garden will be overgrown
Where now the roses fall.

A hundred years from now, dear heart,
We will not mind the pain.
The throbbing crimson tide of life
Will not have left a stain.
The song we sing together, dear,
The dream we dream together here,
Will mean no more than means a tear
Amid a summer rain.

A hundred years from now, dear heart,
The grief will all be o’er;
The sea of care will surge in vain
Upon a careless shore.
These glasses we turn down to-day
Here at the parting of the way:
We will be wineless then as they,
And will not mind it more.

A hundred years from now, dear heart,
We’ll neither know nor care
What came of all life’s bitterness
Or followed love’s despair.
Then fill the glasses up again
And kiss me through the rose-leaf rain;
We’ll build one castle more in Spain,
And dream one more dream there.

John Bennett.

I CHARGE YOU, O WINDS OF THE WEST.

I CHARGE you, O winds of the West, O winds with the wings of the dove,
That ye blow o’er the brows of my Love, breathing low that I sicken for love.

I charge you, O dews of the dawn, O tears of the star of the morn,
That ye fall at the feet of my love, with the sound of one weeping forlorn.

I charge you, O birds of the air, O birds flying home to your nest,
That ye sing in his ears of the joy that for ever has fled from my breast.

I charge you, O flowers of the Earth, O frailest of things, and most fair,
That ye droop in his path as the life in me shrivels and droops with despair.

O Moon, when he lifts up his face, when he seeth the waning of thee,
A memory of her who lies wan on the limits of life let it be.

Many tears cannot quench, nor my sighs extinguish the flames of love’s fire,
Which lifteth my heart like a wave, and smites it and breaks its desire.

I rise like one in a dream; unbidden my feet know the way
To that garden where love stood in blossom with the red and white hawthorn of May.

The song of the throstle is hushed, and the fountain is dry to its core,
The moon cometh up as of old; she seeks, but she finds him no more.

The pale-faced, pitiful moon shines down on the grass where I weep,
My face to the earth, and my breast in an anguish ne’er soothed into sleep.

The moon returns, and the spring, birds warble, trees burst into leaf,
But love once gone, goes for ever, and all that endures is the grief.

Mathilde Blind.

SONG.

THOU walkest with me as the spirit-light
Of the hushed moon, high o’er a snowy hill,
Walks with the houseless traveller all the night,
When trees are tongueless and when mute the rill.
Moon of my soul, O phantom of delight,
Thou walkest with me still.

The vestal flame of quenchless memory burns
In my soul’s sanctuary. Yea, still for thee
My bitter heart hath yearned, as moonward yearns
Each separate wave-pulse of the clamorous sea:
My moon of love, to whom for ever turns
That life that aches through me.

Mathilde Blind.

CÆLI.

IF stars were really watching eyes
Of angel armies in the skies,
I should forget all watchers there,
And only for your glances care.

And if your eyes were really stars,
With leagues that none can mete for bars
To keep me from their longed-for day,
I could not feel more far away.

F. W. Bourdillon.

LOVE IN THE HEART.

LOVE in the heart is as a nightingale
That sings in a green wood;
And none can pass unheeding there, nor fail
Of impulses of good.

Though cruel brief be Love’s bright hour of song,
Yet let him sing his fill!
For other hearts the echoes shall prolong
When Love’s own voice is still.

F. W. Bourdillon.

I WILL NOT LET THEE GO.

I will not let thee go.
Ends all our month-long love in this?
Can it be summed up so,
Quit in a single kiss?
I will not let thee go.

I will not let thee go.
If thy words’ breath could scare thy deeds,
As the soft south can blow
And toss the feathered seeds,
Then might I let thee go.

I will not let thee go.
Had not the great sun seen, I might;
Or were he reckoned slow
To bring the false to light,
Then might I let thee go.

I will not let thee go.
The stars that crowd the summer skies
Have watched us so below
With all their million eyes,
I dare not let thee go.

I will not let thee go.
Have we not chid the changeful moon,
Now rising late, and now
Because she set too soon,
And shall I let thee go?

I will not let thee go.
Have not the young flowers been content,
Plucked ere their buds could blow,
To seal our sacrament?
I cannot let thee go.

I will not let thee go.
I hold thee by too many bands:
Thou sayest farewell, and lo!
I have thee by the hands,
And will not let thee go.

Robert Bridges.

LONG ARE THE HOURS.

LONG are the hours the sun is above,
But when evening comes I go home to my love.

I’m away the daylight hours and more,
Yet she comes not down to open the door.

She does not meet me upon the stair,—
She sits in my chamber and waits for me there.

As I enter the room, she does not move:
I always walk straight up to my love;

And she lets me take my wonted place
At her side, and gaze in her dear, dead face.

There as I sit, from her head thrown back
Her hair falls straight in a shadow black.

Aching and hot as my tired eyes be,
She is all that I wish to see.

And in my wearied and toil-dinned ear,
She says all things that I wish to hear.

Dusky and duskier grows the room,
Yet I see her best in the darker gloom.

When the winter eves are early and cold,
The firelight hours are a dream of gold.

And so I sit here night by night,
In rest and enjoyment of love’s delight.

But a knock on the door, a step on the stair
Will startle, alas, my love from her chair.

If a stranger comes, she will not stay:
At the first alarm she is off and away.

And he wonders, my guest, usurping her throne,
That I sit so much by myself alone.

Robert Bridges.

APPARITIONS.

I.

SUCH a starved bank of moss
Till, that May morn,
Blue ran the flash across:
Violets were born!

II.

SKY—what a scowl of cloud
Till, near and far,
Ray on ray split the shroud:
Splendid, a star!

III.

WORLD—how it walled about
Life with disgrace
Till God’s own smile came out:
That was thy face.

Robert Browning.

PORPHYRIA’S LOVER.

THE rain set early in to-night,
The sullen wind was soon awake;
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
And did its worst to vex the lake.
I listened with heart fit to break,

When glided in Porphyria; straight
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
Which done, she rose, and from her form

Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
And laid her soiled gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
And, last, she sat down by my side
And called me. When no voice replied,

She put my arm about her waist,
And made her smooth, white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
And spread o’er all her yellow hair,—

Murmuring how she loved me,—she
Too weak for all her heart’s endeavour,
To set its struggling passion free
From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
And give herself to me for ever.

But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could to-night’s gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale
For love of her, and all in vain:
So, she was come through wind and rain.

Be sure I looked up at her eyes
Happy and proud; at last I knew
Porphyria worshipped me; surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
While I debated what to do.

That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,

And strangled her. No pain felt she;
I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
I warily oped her lids: again
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.

And I untightened next the tress
About her neck; her cheek once more
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:
I propped her head up as before.
Only this time my shoulder bore

Her head, which droops upon it still:
The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
That all it scorned at once is fled,
And I, its love, am gained instead!

Porphyria’s love: she guessed not how
Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
And all night long we have not stirred,
And yet God has not said a word.

Robert Browning.

ROBIN’S SONG.
Warwickshire, 16—.

UP, up, my heart! up, up, my heart,
This day was made for thee!
For soon the hawthorn spray shall part,
And thou a face shalt see
That comes, O heart, O foolish heart,
This way to gladden thee.

The grass shows fresher on the way
That soon her feet shall tread—
The last year’s leaflet curled and gray,
I could have sworn was dead,
Looks green, for lying in the way
I know her feet will tread.

What hand yon blossom-curtain stirs,
More light than errant air?
I know the touch—’tis hers, ’tis hers!
She parts the thicket there—
The flowerèd branch her coming stirs
Hath perfumed all the air.

The springs of all forgotten years
Are waked to life anew—
Up, up, my eyes, nor fill with tears
As tender as the dew—
I knew her not in all those years;
But life begins anew.

Up, up, my heart! up, up, my heart,
This day was made for thee!
Come, Wit, take on thy nimblest art,
And win Love’s victory—
What now? Where art thou, coward heart?
Thy hour is here—and She!

H. C. Bunner.

THE HOUR OF SHADOWS.

UPON that quiet day that lies
Where forest branches screen the skies,
The spirit of the eve has laid
A deeper and a dreamier shade;
And winds that through the tree-tops blow
Wake not the silent gloom below.

Only the sound of far-off streams,
Faint as our dreams of childhood’s dreams,
Wandering in tangled pathways crost,
Like woodland truants strayed and lost,
Their faint, complaining echoes roam,
Threading the forest toward their home.

O brooks, I too have gone astray,
And left my comrade on the way—
Guide me through aisles where soft you moan,
To some sad spot you know alone,
Where only leaves and nestlings stir,
And I may dream, and dream of Her.

H. C. Bunner.

CARNATIONS IN WINTER.

YOUR carmine flakes of bloom to-night
The fire of wintry sunsets hold;
Again in dreams you burn to light
A fair Canadian garden old.

The blue north summer over it
Is bland with long ethereal days;
The gleaming martins wheel and flit
Where breaks your sun down orient ways.

There, when the gradual twilight falls,
Through quietudes of dusk afar,
Hermit, antiphonal hermit calls
From hills below the first pale star.

Then, in your passionate love’s foredoom
Once more your spirit stirs the air,
And you are lifted through the gloom
To warm the coils of her dark hair.

Bliss Carman.

THE EAVESDROPPER.

IN a still room at hush of dawn,
My Love and I lay side by side
And heard the roaming forest wind
Stir in the paling autumn-tide.

I watched her earth-brown eyes grow glad
Because the round day was so fair;
While memories of reluctant night
Lurked in the blue dusk of her hair.

Outside, a yellow maple-tree,
Shifting upon the silvery blue
With small innumerable sound,
Rustled to let the sunlight through.

The livelong day the elvish leaves
Danced with their shadows on the floor;
And the lost children of the wind
Went straying homeward by our door.

And all the swarthy afternoon
We watched the great deliberate sun
Walk through the crimsoned hazy world,
Counting his hilltops one by one.

Then as the purple twilight came
And touched the vines along our eaves,
Another shadow stood without
And gloomed the dancing of the leaves.

The silence fell on my Love’s lips;
Her great brown eyes were veiled and sad
With pondering some maze of dream,
Though all the splendid year was glad.

Restless and vague as a gray wind
Her heart had grown, she knew not why.
But hurrying to the open door,
Against the verge of western sky

I saw retreating on the hills,
Looming and sinister and black,
The stealthy figure swift and huge
Of One who strode and looked not back.

Bliss Carman.

THE IMPOSSIBLE SHE.

FAR away hangs an apple that ripens on high
The latest-born child of old sun-blind July,
Till the summer’s warm kiss as he wooes overhead
Turns its sour heart to sweetness, its wan cheek to red.
But it is not for you, and it is not for me,
Nay, it is not for any who here may be;
For its dawning red sweetness,
That rounds to completeness
Grows moist for the lips that we never may see.

There’s a white rose leaf-cloistered in heavy noon-hush,
And no eyes but the stars tempt its pale face to blush,
In that wilderness garden where, shut from day’s beam,
Fall its fragrant white leaves, light as steps of a dream.
But it is not for you, and it is not for me,
Nay, it is not for any who here may be;
For it sleeps and then wakes
In dew-scented snow-flakes,
As a star for the dusk hair we never may see.

In a green golden valley there grows an elf-girl,
And her lip is red-ripe; and her soul, one rich pearl,
Yields once to one diver a treasure unpriced
As the wine of the Gods or the wine-blood of Christ.
But she is not for you, and she is not for me,
Nay she is not for any who here may be;
For her breast like a moon
Through the rosed air of June
Grows round for his hand whom we never may see.

Henry Bernard Carpenter.

A DREAM SHAPE.

WITH moon-white hearts that held a gleam
I gathered wild flowers in a dream,
And shaped a woman, whose sweet blood
Was odour of the wildwood bud.

From dew, the starlight arrowed through,
I wrought a woman’s eyes of blue;
The lids, that on her eyeballs lay,
Were rose-pale petals of the May.

I took the music of the breeze,
And water whispering in the trees,
And shaped the soul that breathed below
A woman’s blossom breasts of snow.

Out of a rose-bud’s veins I drew
The fragrant crimsom beating through
The languid lips of her, whose kiss
Was as a poppy’s drowsiness.

Out of the moonlight and the air
I wrought the glory of her hair,
That o’er her eyes’ blue heaven lay
Like some gold cloud o’er dawn of day.

A shadow’s shadow in the glass
Of sleep, my spirit saw her pass;
And, thinking of it now, meseems
We only live within our dreams.

For in that time she was to me
More real than our reality;
More real than Earth, more real than I—
The unreal things that pass and die.

Madison Cawein.

UNREQUITED.

PASSION? not hers who fixed me with pure eyes—
One hand among the deep curls of her brow,
I drank the girlhood of her gaze with sighs:
She never sighed, nor gave me kiss or vow.

So have I seen a clear October pool,
Cold, liquid topaz set within the sear
Gold of the woodland, tremorless and cool,
Reflecting all the heartbreak of the year.

Sweetheart? not she whose voice was music-sweet,
Whose face loaned language to melodious prayer;
Sweetheart I called her.—When did she repeat
Sweet to one hope or heart to one despair!

So have I seen a glad flower’s fragrant head
Sung to and sung to by a longing bird,
And at the last, albeit the bird lay dead,
No blossom wilted, for it had not heard.

Madison Cawein.

IN THE WOOD.

THROUGH laughing leaves the sunlight comes,
Turning the green to gold;
The bee about the heather hums,
And the morning air is cold
Here on the breezy woodland side,
Where we two ride.

Through laughing leaves on golden hair,
The sunlight glances down,
And makes a halo round her there,
And crowns her with a crown
Queen of the sunrise and the sun,
As we ride on.

The wanton wind has kissed her face,—
His lips have left a rose,—
He found her cheek so sweet a place
For kisses, I suppose,—
He thought he’d leave a sign, that so
Others might know.

The path grows narrower as we ride
The green boughs close above,
And overhead, and either side,
The wild birds sing of Love:—
But ah, she is not listening
To what they sing!

Till I take up the wild bird’s song
And word by word unfold
Its meaning as we ride along,—
And when my tale is told,
I turn my eyes to hers again,—
And then,—and then,—

(The bridle path more narrow grows,
The leaves shut out the sun;—)
Where the wind’s lips left their one rose
My own leave more than one:—
While the leaves murmur up above,
And laugh for love.

This was the place;—you see the sky
Now ’twixt the branches bare;
About the path the dead leaves lie,
And songless is the air;—
All’s changed since then, for that you know
Was long ago.

Let us ride on! The wind is cold.—
Let us ride on—ride fast!—
’Tis winter, and we know of old
That love could never last
Without the summer and the sun!—
Let us ride on!

Herbert E. Clarke.

BIRDS AND LOVERS.

I.

O BROWN lark, loving cloud-land best
And sun-smit seas of sky,
Thee does a musical unrest
Drive to rise upward from thy nest
Far fathoms high.

II.

O fluid-fluting blackbird, keep
The midnight of thy wing
Close to my home where leaves grow deep,
Since where two lovers lie asleep
Thou lovest to sing.

Mortimer Collins.

DAWN.

DAWN, with flusht foot upon the mountain tops,
Stands beckoning to the Sun-god’s golden car,
While on her high clear brow the morning star
Grows fainter, as the silver-misty copse
And rosy river-bend and village white
Feel the strong shafts of light.

The tide of dreams has reached its utter ebb;
The joy of Dawn is in my Lady’s eyes,
Where at her window with a half-surprise
She sees the meadows meshed with fairy web,
And hears the happy skylark, far above,
Singing, I live! I love!

Mortimer Collins.

LOVE’S POWER.

THE fire is smouldering while the daylight wanes;
Rain taps impatient on the window-panes;
The waves roll high, and the cold wind complains.
The wind complains.

Reluctant start the embers to a blaze;
Among the ashy drifts the red coal plays;
In fairy rings the circling smoke delays.
The smoke delays.

Ah, lonely life! it is the wind’s sad cry;
Ah, only life! calls Echo, floating by;
Ah, love is life! it is my heart’s reply.
My heart’s reply.

Burn low, ye fires that on the hearthstone play!
Beat out your life, O waves in dashing spray!
My heart chants not your monotone to-day.
Oh, not to-day!

I hear no dirge, I see no ashes gray—
Love! love! love! love! its rapture fills the day!
The winter brings to me the bloom of May.
The bloom of May.

Lydia Avery Coonley.

LAST NIGHT MY LADY TALKED WITH ME.

LAST night my lady talked with me,
As on a green hill I and she
Sat close, where erst alone I stood
Beneath the dusk-leaved ilex-wood.

The earth was gathered to her rest,
Sweet silence lay upon her breast,
Well-nigh asleep, save that she heard
The wandering waters’ silver word.

The sun had kissed the earth’s dark lips
That grow so ruddy ere he dips,
Wine-coloured to his golden rim,
As purple evening pours for him.

Low stooped his head, as he would drink,
Till out of sight we saw him sink,
And with his splendour in our eyes,
Full-orbed we watched the great moon rise.

Rose-tinged in the dim sky shone she
Like Venus from the opal sea,
So grew her glory in our sight,
Till in her face we saw love’s light,

Love’s light in hers, like flame on flame,—
Yea, very Love in presence came,
Between the fires of moon and sun,
He stood, like dawn ere night begun.

Clear-aureoled his golden head,
His eyes our burning hearts well read,
And in the sanctuary of my soul
I won of love the golden goal.

Walter Crane.

LOVE’S ARROWS.

I SAW young Love make trial of his bow,
In May’s green garden where he shot his dart,
Nor recked if any nigh beheld his art,
But other eyes did mark him as I know;
For my sweet lady sate anear his throw,
And I with her, and joinèd heart to heart,
So that we might not feel the bitter smart
Love leaveth there when time doth force us go.

We heard Love’s arrows falling in the grass,
Or watched them quiver in the targe below;
Yet few to us came nigh, nor might they pass
Beyond our feet, which trembled when they came,
Whose hearts were not the quarry for his aim,
That in Love’s chase fell stricken long ago.

Walter Crane.

A LOVE SONG.
From the French of Alphonse de Lamartine.

TIME with his jealous icy blast
Will wither all your charms, like sweet flowers past
And dead in winter’s tomb;
Till soft, red lips are kissless, and the joy
They now can give, tho’ now, alas, too coy,
Has perish’d with their bloom.

Yet when your eyes, veil’d in a cloud of tears,
Shall mourn the rigour of the fleeting years,
And see each grace depart,
When in the past, as in a stream, you gaze,
And seek the lovely form of other days,
Look rather in my heart;

There will your beauty flourish years untold,
There will my loyalty watch you as of old,
And keep you still the same;
Just as a golden lamp some holy maid
Might shelter with her hand, while thro’ the shade
She bears the trembling flame.

Oh, when Death smiling comes, as come he must,
And shatters our twin torches in the dust,
A stronger love shall bloom;
Then shall my last sweet resting-place be thine,
And your soft hand clasp’d tenderly in mine,
In our last bed, the tomb.

Or, rather, darling, let us fly away,
Just as upon some glorious autumn day
Two loving swans might rise,
And, still caressing, leave their wonted nest,
And seek for brighter lands, and climes more blest,
And fuller, deeper skies!

Harry Curwen.

THE PARTING HOUR.

NOT yet, dear love, not yet: the sun is high;
You said last night, “At sunset I will go.”
Come to the garden, where, when blossoms die,
No word is spoken; it is better so:
Ah! bitter word, “Farewell.”

Hark how the birds sing sunny songs of spring!
Soon they will build, and work will silence them;
So we grow less light-hearted as years bring
Life’s grave responsibilities—and then
The bitter word “Farewell.”

The violets fret to fragrance ’neath your feet,
Heaven’s gold sunlight dreams aslant your hair:
No flower for me! your mouth is far more sweet.
Oh, let my lips forget, while lingering there,
Love’s bitter word “Farewell.”
. . . . . . . . . .
Sunset already! have we sat so long?
The parting hour, and so much left unsaid!
The garden has grown silent—void of song,
Our sorrow shakes us with a sudden dread!
Ah! bitter word “Farewell.”

Olive Custance.

THE SUNDIAL.

’Tis an old dial, dark with many a stain;
In summer crowned with drifting orchard-bloom,
Tricked in the autumn with the yellow rain,
And white in winter like a marble tomb;

And round about its gray, time-eaten brow
Lean letters speak—a worn and shattered row;
I am a Shade: a Shadow too arte thou:
I marke the Time: saye, Gossip, dost thou soe?

Here would the ringdoves linger, head to head;
And here the snail a silver course would run,
Beating old Time; and here the peacock spread
His gold-green glory, shutting out the sun.

The tardy shade moved forward to the noon;
Betwixt the paths a dainty Beauty stept,
That swung a flower, and, smiling, hummed a tune,—
Before whose feet a barking spaniel leapt.

O’er her blue dress an endless blossom strayed,
About her tendril-curls the sunlight shone;
And round her train the tiger-lilies swayed,
Like courtiers bowing till the queen be gone.

She leaned upon the slab a little while,
Then drew a jewelled pencil from her zone,
Scribbled a something with a frolic smile,
Folded, inscribed, and niched it in the stone.

The shade slipped on, no swifter than the snail;
There came a second lady in the place,
Dove-eyed, dove-robed, and something wan and pale—
An inner beauty shining from her face.

She, as if listless with a lonely love,
Straying among the alleys with a book,—
Herrick or Herbert,—watched the circling dove,
And spied the tiny letter in the nook.

Then, like to one who confirmation found
Of some dread secret half accounted true,—
Who knew what hands and hearts the letter bound,
And argued loving commerce ’twixt the two,

She bent her fair young forehead on the stone,
The dark shade gloomed an instant on her head;
And ’twixt her taper fingers pearled and shone
The single tear that tear-worn eyes will shed.

The shade slipped onward to the falling gloom;
There came a soldier gallant in her stead,
Swinging a beaver with a swaling plume,
A ribboned love-lock rippling from his head;

Blue-eyed, frank-faced, with clear and open brow,
Scar-seamed a little, as the women love;
So kindly fronted that you marvel how
The frequent sword-hilt had so frayed his glove;

Who switched at Psyche plunging in the sun;
Uncrowned three lilies with a backward swinge;
And standing somewhat widely, like to one
More used to “Boot and Saddle” than to cringe

As courtiers do, but gentleman withal,
Took out the note; held it as one who feared
The fragile thing he held would slip and fall;
Read and re-read, pulling his tawny beard;