Down the dimpled greensward dancing, Bursts a flaxen-headed bevy,— Bud-lipt boys and girls advancing, Love’s irregular little levy. Rows of liquid eyes in laughter, How they glimmer, how they quiver! Sparkling one another after, Like bright ripples on a river. Tipsy band of rubious faces, Flushed with Joy’s ethereal spirit, Make your mocks and sly grimaces At Love’s self, and do not fear it.
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Up the dale and down the bourne, O’er the meadow swift we fly; Now we sing, and now we mourn, Now we whistle, now we sigh. By the grassy-fringèd river, Through the murmuring reeds we sweep; Mid the lily-leaves we quiver, To their very hearts we creep. Now the maiden rose is blushing At... |
It is not Beauty I demand, A crystal brow, the moon’s despair, Nor the snow’s daughter, a white hand, Nor mermaid’s yellow pride of hair: Tell me not of your starry eyes, Your lips that seem on roses fed, Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed,— A... |
Down the dimpled greensward dancing, Bursts a flaxen-headed bevy,— Bud-lipt boys and girls advancing, Love’s irregular little levy. Rows of liquid eyes in laughter, How they glimmer, how they quiver! Sparkling one another after, Like bright ripples on a river. Tipsy band of rubious faces... |
