Alas! that men must see
Love, before Death!
Else they content might be
With their short breath;
Aye, glad, when the pale sun
Showed restless Day was done,
And endless Rest begun.
Glad, when with strong, cool hand
Death clasped their own,
And with a strange command
Hushed every moan;
Glad...
Deep in a Rose’s glowing heart
I dropped a single kiss,
And then I bade it quick depart,
And tell my Lady this:
“The love thy Lover tried to send
O’erflows my fragrant bowl,
But my soft leaves would break and bend,
Should he send half the whole!”
O ruddy Lover—
O brave red Clover!
Didst think to win her
Thou dost adore?
She will not love thee,
She looks above thee,
The Daisy’s gold doth move her more.
If gold can win her,
Then Love’s not in her;
So leave the Sinner,
And sigh no more!
How long I ’ve loved thee, and how well—
I dare not tell!
Because, if thou shouldst once divine
This love of mine,
Or did but once my tongue confess
My heart’s distress,
Far, far too plainly thou wouldst see
My slavery,
And, guessing what Love’s wit should hide,
Rest satisfied!
So, though I...
When dorothy and I took tea, we sat upon the floor;
No matter how much tea I drank, she always gave me more;
Our table was the scarlet box in which her tea-set came;
Our guests, an armless one-eyed doll, a wooden horse gone lame.
She poured out nothing, very fast,—the tea-pot tipped on high,—
And in the bowl found sugar lumps unseen by my dull eye....
In battle-line of sombre gray
Our ships-of-war advance,
As Red Cross Knights in holy fray
Charged with avenging lance.
And terrible shall be thy plight,
O fleet of cruel Spain!
For ever in our van doth fight
The spirit of the Maine!
As when beside Regillus Lake
The Great Twin Brethren came
A righteous...
o hearken, all ye little weeds
That lie beneath the snow,
(So low, dear hearts, in poverty so low!)
The sun hath risen for royal deeds,
A valiant wind the vanguard leads;
Now quicken ye, lest unborn seeds
Before ye rise and blow.
O furry living things, adream
On Winter’s drowsy breast,
(How rest ye...
O living image of eternal youth!
Wrought with such large simplicity of truth
That, now the pattern’s made and on the shelf,
Each vows he might have cut it for himself;
Nor marvels that we sang of empty days,
Of rank-grown laurel and unprunëd bays,
While yet, in all this lonely Crusoe land,
The Trilby footprint had not touched the sand....
Seal thou the window! Yea, shut out the light
And bar my door to all the airs of spring.
Yet in my cell, concealed from curious sight,
Here will I sit and sing.
Deaf, blind, and wilt Thou have me dumb, also,
Telling in silence these sad beads of days?
So let it be: though no sweet numbers flow,
My breath shall be Thy praise.
...
What, comrade of a night,
No sooner meet than fight?
Before the word, the blow?
Well, be it so.
Yet think not Thou I yield,
Lost on a lonely field.
Lo! to my fainting breath,
My champion, Death!
