From a MS. Temp. Henry VIII.
AH, my sweet sweeting;
My little pretty sweeting,
My sweeting will I love wherever I go;
She is so proper and pure,
Full, steadfast, stable, and demure,
There is none such, you may be sure,
As my sweet sweeting.
In all this world, as thinketh me,
Is none so pleasant...
So sweet love seemed that April morn,
When first we kissed beside the thorn,
So strangely sweet, it was not strange
We thought that love could never change.
But I can tell—let truth be told—
That love will change in growing old;
Though day by day is naught to see,
So delicate his motions be.
And in the end ’t will come to pass...
Spring, the sweet spring, is the year’s pleasant king;
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
The palm and may make country-houses gay,
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay,
Cuckoo...
Homely phrase of our southland bright—
Keep steady step to the flam of the drum;
Touch to the left—eyes to the right—
Sing with the soul tho’ the lips be dumb.
Hard to be good when the wind ’s in the east;
Hard to be gay when the heart is down;
When “they that trouble you are increased,”
When you look for a smile and see a frown....
From “Susan: A Poem of Degrees”
HER Master gave the signal, with a look:
Then, timidly as if afraid, she took
In her rough hands the Laureate’s dainty book,
And straight began. But when she did begin,
Her own mute sense of poesy within
Broke forth to hail the poet, and to greet
His graceful fancies and the accents sweet
In which...
Could that sweet Darkness where they dwell
Be once disclosed to us
The clamor for their loveliness
Would burst the Loneliness —
Crisis is sweet and yet the Heart
Upon the hither side
Has Dowers of Prospective
To Denizens denied
Inquire of the closing Rose
Which rapture she preferred
And she will point you sighing
To her rescinded Bud.
Frigid and sweet Her parting Face —
Frigid and fleet my Feet —
Alien and vain whatever Clime
Acrid whatever Fate.
Given to me without the Suit
Riches and Name and Realm —
Who was She to withhold from me
Penury and Home?
Her Sweet turn to leave the Homestead
Came the Darker Way —
Carriages — Be Sure — and Guests — too —
But for Holiday
'Tis more pitiful Endeavor
Than did Loaded Sea
O'er the Curls attempt to caper
It had cast away —
Never Bride had such Assembling —
Never...
Her sweet Weight on my Heart a Night
Had scarcely deigned to lie —
When, stirring, for Belief's delight,
My Bride had slipped away —
If 'twas a Dream — made solid — just
The Heaven to confirm —
Or if Myself were dreamed of Her —
The power to presume —
With Him remain...
