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THE WINDOW; OR THE SONGS OF THE WRENS.
AT THE WINDOW.
VINE, vine and eglantine,
Clasp her window, trail and twine!
Rose, rose and clematis,
Trail and twine and clasp and kiss,
Kiss, kiss; and make her a bower
All of flowers, and drop me a flower,
Drop me a flower.
Vine, vine and eglantine,
Cannot a flower, a flower, be mine?
Rose, rose and clematis,
Drop me a flower, a flower, to kiss,
Kiss, kiss—and out of her bower
All of flowers, a flower, a flower
Dropt, a flower.
GONE.
Gone!
Gone till the end of the year,
Gone, and the light gone with her and left me in shadow here!
Gone—flitted away,
Taken the stars from the night and the sun from the day!
Gone, and a cloud in my heart, and a storm in the air!
Flown to the east or the west, flitted I know not where!
Down in the south is a flash and a groan; she is there! she is there!
Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
VALENTINE.
IF thou canst make the frost be gone,
And fleet away the snow
(And that thou canst, I trow);
If thou canst make the spring to dawn,
Hawthorn to put her brav’ry on,
Willow, her weeds of fine green lawn,
Say why thou dost not so—
Aye, aye!
Say why
Thou dost not so!
If thou canst chase the stormy rack,
And bid the soft winds blow
(And that thou canst, I trow);
If thou canst call the thrushes back
To give the groves the songs they lack,
And wake the violet in thy track,
Say why thou dost not so—
Aye, aye!
Say why
Thou dost not so!
If thou canst make my winter spring,
With one word breathèd low
(And that thou canst, I know);
If in the closure of a ring
Thou canst to me such treasure bring,
My state shall be above a king,
Say why thou dost not so—
Aye, aye!
Say why
Thou dost not so!
Edith M. Thomas.
DREAM TRYST.
THEWere
breaths of kissing night and day
mingled in the eastern heaven;
Throbbing with unheard melody
Shook Lyra all its star-chord seven:
When dusk shrunk cold, and light trod shy,
And dawn’s gray eyes were troubled gray;
And souls went palely up the sky,
And mine to Lucidé.
There was no change in her sweet eyes
Since last I saw those sweet eyes shine;
There was no change in her deep heart
Since last that deep heart knocked at mine.
Her eyes were clear, her eyes were Hope’s,
Wherein did ever come and go
The sparkle of the fountain-drops
From her sweet soul below.
The chambers in the house of dreams
Are fed with so divine an air,
That Time’s hoar wings grow young therein,
And they who walk there are most fair.
I joyed for me, I joyed for her,
Who with the Past meet girt about,
Where our last kiss still warms the air,
Nor can her eyes go out.
Francis Thompson.
ATALANTA.
WHEN spring grows old, and sleepy winds
Set from the south with odours sweet,
I see my love, in green, cool groves,
Speed down dusk aisles on shining feet.
She throws a kiss and bids me run,
In whispers sweet as roses’ breath;
I know I cannot win the race,
And at the end, I know, is death.
But joyfully I bare my limbs,
Anoint me with the tropic breeze,
And feel through every sinew thrill
The vigour of Hippomenes.
A race of love! We all have run
Thy happy course through groves of spring,
And cared not, when at last we lost,
For life, or death, or anything!
Maurice Thompson.
A SONG OF THANKSGIVING.
MYThy
love is the flaming sword, to fight through the world;
love is the shield to ward,
And the armour of the Lord,
And the banner of Heav’n unfurl’d.
Let my voice ring out, and over the earth,
Through all the grief and strife,
With a golden joy in a silver mirth,
Thank God for Life!
Let my voice swell out through the great abyss,
To the azure dome above,
With a chord of faith in the harp of bliss
Thank God for Love!
Let my voice thrill out, beneath and above,
The whole world through,
O my Love and Life, O my Life and Love,
Thank God for you!
James Thomson.
DAY AFTER DAY OF THIS AZURE MAY.
DAYTheafter day of this azure May,
blood of the spring has swelled in my veins;
Night after night of broad moonlight,
A mystical dream has dazzled my brains.
A seething might, a fierce delight,
The blood of the spring is the wine of the world;
My veins run fire and thrill desire,
Every leaf of my heart’s red rose uncurled.
A sad, sweet calm, a tearful balm,
The light of the moon is the trance of the world;
My brain is fraught with yearning thought,
And the rose is pale, and its leaves are furled.
Oh, speed the day then, dear, dear May,
And hasten the night, I charge thee, O June!
When the trance divine shall burn with the wine,
And the red rose unfurl all its fire to the moon.
James Thomson.
THE SONG OF TRISTRAM.
THENight
star of love is trembling in the west,
hears the desolate sea with moan on moan
Sigh for the storm, who on his mountain lone
Smites his wild harp, and dreams of her wild breast.
I am thy storm, Isolt, and thou my sea!
Isolt!
My passionate sea!
The storm to her wild breast, the passionate sea
To his fierce arms: we to the rapturous leap
Of mated spirits mingling in love’s deep,
Flame to flame, I to thee and thou to me!
Thou to mine arms, Isolt, I to thy breast!
Isolt!
I to thy breast!
John Todhunter.
AUBADE.
THELoose
lights are out in the street, and a cool wind swings
poplar plumes on the sky;
Deep in the gloom of the garden the first bird sings:
Curt, hurried steps go by,
Loud in the hush of the dawn past the linden screen,
Lost in a jar and a rattle of wheels unseen,
Beyond on the wide highway:
Night lingers dusky and dim in the pear-tree boughs,
Hangs in the hollows of leaves, though the thrushes rouse,
And the glimmering lawn grows gray.
Yours, my heart knoweth, yours only the jewelled gloom,
Splendours of opal and amber, the scent, the bloom,
Yours all, and your own demesne—
Scent of the dark, of the dawning, of leaves and dew;
Nothing that was but hath changed—’tis a world made new—
A lost world risen again.
The lamps are out in the street, and the air grows bright;
Come, lest the miracle fade in the broad, bare light,
The new world wither away:
Clear is your voice in my heart, and you call me—whence?
Come—for I listen, I wait,—bid me rise, go hence,
Or ever the dawn turn day.
Graham R. Tomson.
LOVE, THE GUEST.
I DIDI deemed
not dream that Love would stay,
him but a passing guest,
Yet here he lingers many a day.
I said, “Young Love will flee with May,
And leave forlorn the hearth he blest;”
I did not dream that Love would stay.
My envious neighbour mocks me, “Nay,
Love lies not long in any nest;”
Yet here he lingers many a day.
And though I did his will alway,
And gave him even of my best,
I did not dream that Love would stay.
I have no skill to bid him stay,
Of tripping tongue or cunning jest,
Yet here he lingers many a day.
Beneath his ivory feet I lay
Pale plumage of the ringdove’s breast;
I did not dream that Love would stay.
Will Love be flown? I ofttimes say,
Home turning for the noonday rest;
Yet here he lingers many a day.
His gold curls gleam, his lips are gay,
His eyes through tears smile loveliest;
I did not dream that Love would stay.
He sometimes sighs, when far away
The low red sun makes fair the west,
Yet here he lingers many a day.
Thrice blest of all men am I! yea
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.
A BLUSH AT FAREWELL.
HERThine,
tears are all thine own! how blest thou art!
too, the blush which no reserve can bind;
Thy farewell voice was as the stirring wind
That floats the rose-bloom; thou hast won her heart;
Dear are the hopes it ushers to thy breast;
She speaks not—but she gives her silent bond;
And thou mayst trust it, asking nought beyond
The promise, which as yet no words attest;
Deep in her bosom sinks the conscious glow,
And deep in thine! and I can well foresee,
If thou shalt feel a lover’s jealousy
For her brief absence, what a ruling power
A bygone blush shall prove! until the hour
Of meeting, when thy next love-rose shall blow.
Charles Tennyson Turner.
THE KISS OF BETROTHAL.
WHEN lovers’ lips from kissing disunite
With sound as soft as mellow fruitage breaking,
They loathe to leave what was so sweet in taking,
So fraught with breathless magical delight;
The scent of flowers is long before it fade,
Long dwells upon the gale the Vesper-tone,
Far floats the wake the lightest skiff has made,
The closest kiss when once imprest, is gone;
What marvel, then, that each so closely kisseth?
Sweet is the fourfold touch—the living seal—
What marvel then, with sorrow each dismisseth
This thrilling pledge of all they hope and feel?
While on their lingering steps the shadows steal,
And each true heart beats as the other wisheth.
Charles Tennyson Turner.
THE PARTING-GATE.
IN that old beech-walk, now bestrewn with mast,
And roaring loud—they linger’d long and late;
Harsh was the clang of the last homeward gate
That latch’d itself behind them, as they pass’d—
Then kiss’d and parted. Soon her funeral knell
Toll’d from a foreign clime; he did not talk
Nor weep, but shudder’d at that stern farewell;
’Twas the last gate in all their lovers’-walk
Without the kiss beyond it! Was it good
To leave him thus, alone with his sad mood
In that dear footpath, haunted by her smile?
Where they had laugh’d and loiter’d, sat and stood?
Alone in life! alone in Moreham wood!
Through all that sweet, forsaken, forest mile!
Charles Tennyson Turner.
IRISH LOVE SONG.
WOULD God I were the tender apple-blossom,
Floating and falling from the twisted bough,
To lie and faint within your silken bosom,
As that does now!
Or would I were a little burnished apple
For you to pluck me, gliding by so cold,
While sun and shade your robe of lawn will dapple,
Your hair’s spun gold.
Yea, would to God I were among the roses
That lean to kiss you as you float between!
While on the lowest branch a bud uncloses
To touch you, Queen!
Nay, since you will not love, would I were growing
A happy daisy in the garden path;
That so your silver foot might press me going,
Even unto death!
Katherine Tynan.
GOOD-NIGHT.
IT isI over now, she is gone to rest;
have clasped the hands on the quiet breast;
Draw back the curtain, let in the light,
She will never shrink if it be too bright.
We were two in here but an hour gone by,
No streak was then in the midnight sky;
Now I am one to watch the day
Come glimmering up from the far-away.
What will he say when he comes in,
Waked by the city’s morning din,
Hoping to find and fearing to know
The sorrow he left but an hour ago?
What will he say who has watched so long,
When he shall find who has come and gone?
Come a watcher that will not bide
Love’s morning or noon or eventide.
He thought to kiss her by morning gray,
But God has thought to take her away.
What will he say? God knows, not I;
“Good-night,” he said, but never “good-bye.”
C. C. Fraser Tytler.
I KNOW ’TIS LATE, BUT LET ME STAY.
I KNOW ’tis late, but let me stay,
For night is tenderer than day;
Sweet love, dear love, I cannot go;
Dear love, sweet love, I love thee so.
The birds are in the grove asleep,
The katydids shrill concert keep,
The woodbine breathes a fragrance rare
To please the dewy, languid air,
The fireflies twinkle in the vale,
The river shines in moonlight pale:
See yon bright star! choose it for thine,
And call its near companion mine;
Yon air-spun lace above the moon,—
’Twill veil her radiant beauty soon;
And look! a meteor’s dreamy light
Streams mystic through the solemn night.
Ah, life glides swift, like that still fire—
How soon our gleams of joy expire!
Who can be sure the present kiss
Is not his last? Make all of this.
I know ’tis late, dear love, I know,
Dear love, sweet love, I love thee so.
It cannot be the stealthy day
That turns the orient darkness gray;
Heardst thou? I thought or feared I heard
Vague twitters of some wakeful bird.
Nay, ’twas but summer in her sleep
Low murmuring from the leafy deep.
Fantastic mist obscurely fills
The hollows of Kentucky hills.
The wings of night are swift indeed!
Why makes the jealous morn such speed?
This rose thou wear’st may I not take
For passionate remembrance’ sake?
P ith th li it i h t
Press with thy lips its crimson heart.
Yes, blushing rose, we must depart.
A rose cannot return a kiss—
I pay its due with this, and this.
The stars grow faint, they soon will die,
But love fades not nor fails. Good-bye!
Unhappy joy—delicious pain—
We part in love, we meet again.
Good-bye! the morning dawns—I go;
Dear love, sweet love, I love thee so.
William H. Venable.
CASHEL OF MUNSTER.
I WOULD wed you, dear, without gold or gear, or counted kine;
My wealth you’ll be, would your friends agree, and you be mine.
My grief, my gloom! that you do not come, my heart’s dear hoard!
To Cashel fair, though our couch were there but a soft deal board.
Oh, come, my bride, o’er the wild hill-side to the valley low!
A downy bed for my love I’ll spread where waters flow,
And we shall stray where streamlets play, the groves among,
Where echo tells to the listening dells the blackbird’s song.
Love tender, true, I gave to you, and secret sighs,
In hope to see upon you and me one hour arise,
When the priest’s blest voice would bind my choice and the ring’s strict tie,
If wife you be, love, to one but me, love, in grief I’ll die!
A neck of white has my heart’s delight, and breast like snow,
And flowing hair whose ringlets fair to the green grass flow,
Alas! that I did not early die, before the day
That saw me here, from my bosom’s dear, far, far away!
Edward Walsh.
DAFFODILS.
I QUESTION with the amber daffodils,
Sheeting the floors of April, how she fares;
Where king-cup buds gleam out between the rills,
And celandine in wide gold beadlets glares.
By pastured brows and swelling hedgerow bowers,
From crumpled leaves the primrose bunches slip,
My hot face roll’d in their faint-scented flowers,
I dream her rich cheek rests against my lip.
All weird sensations of the fervent prime
Are like great harmonies, whose touch can move
The glow of gracious impulse: thought and time
Renew my love with life, my life with love.
When this old world new-born puts glories on,
I cannot think she never will be won.
John Leicester Warren.
AVE ATQUE VALE.
FAREWELL my Youth! for now we needs must part,
For here the paths divide;
Here hand from hand must sever, heart from heart,—
Divergence deep and wide.
You’ll wear no withered roses for my sake,
Though I go mourning for you all day long,
Finding no magic more in bower and brake,
No melody in song.
Gray Eld must travel in my company
To seal this severance more fast and sure.
A joyless fellowship, i’ faith, ’twill be,
Yet must we fare together, I and he,
Till I shall tread the footpath way no more.
But when a blackbird pipes among the boughs,
On some dim iridescent day in spring,
Then I may dream you are remembering
Our ancient vows.
Or when some joy foregone, some fate forsworn
Looks through the dark eyes of the violet,
I may recross the set, forbidden bourne, I may forget
Our long, long parting for a little while,
Dream of the golden splendours of your smile,
Dream you remember yet.
Rosamund Marriot Watson.
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