If I were what the words are, And love were like the tune, With double sound and single Delight our lips would mingle, With kisses glad as birds are That get sweet rain at noon; If I were what the words are, And love were like the tune.
If you were life, my darling, And I your love were death, We'd shine and snow together Ere March made sweet the weather With daffodil and starling And hours of fruitful breath; If you were life, my darling, And I your love were death.
If you were thrall to sorrow, And I were page to joy, We'd play for lives and seasons With loving looks and treasons And tears of night and morrow And laughs of maid and boy; If you were thrall to sorrow, And I were page to joy.
If you were April's lady, And I were lord in May, We'd throw with leaves for hours And draw for days with flowers, Till day like night were shady And night were bright like day; If you were April's lady, And I were lord in May.
If you were queen of pleasure, And I were king of pain, We'd hunt down love together, Pluck out his flying-feather, And teach his feet a measure, And find his mouth a rein; If you were queen of pleasure, And I were king of pain.
Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]
A BALLAD OF LIFE
I found in dreams a place of wind and flowers, Full of sweet trees and color of glad grass, In midst whereof there was A lady clothed like summer with sweet hours, Her beauty, fervent as a fiery moon Made my blood burn and swoon Like a flame rained upon. Sorrow had filled her shaken eyelids' blue, And her mouth's sad red heavy rose all through Seemed sad with glad things gone.
She held a little cithern by the strings, Shaped heartwise, strung with subtle-colored hair Of some dead lute player That in dead years had done delicious things. The seven strings were named accordingly; The first string charity, The second tenderness, The rest were pleasure, sorrow, sleep, and sin, And loving kindness, that is pity's kin And is most pitiless.
There were three men with her, each garmented With gold, and shod with gold upon the feet; And with plucked ears of wheat. The first man's hair was wound upon his head: His face was red, and his mouth curled and sad; All his gold garment had Pale stains of dust and rust. A riven hood was pulled across his eyes; The token of him being upon this wise Made for a sign of Lust.
The next 'was Shame, with hollow heavy face Colored like green wood when flame kindles it. He hath such feeble feet They may not well endure in any place. His face was full of gray old miseries. And all his blood's increase Was even increase of pain. The last was Fear, that is akin to Death; He is Shame's friend, and always as Shame saith Fear answers him again.
My soul said in me: This is marvelous, Seeing the air's face is not so delicate Nor the sun's grace so great, If sin and she be kin or amorous. And seeing where maidens served her on their knees, I bade one crave of these To know the cause thereof. Then Fear said: I am Pity that was dead. And Shame said: I am Sorrow comforted. And Lust said: I am Love.
Thereat her hands began a lute-playing And her sweet mouth a song in a strange tongue; And all the while she sung There was no sound but long tears following Long tears upon men's faces, waxen white With extreme sad delight. But those three following men Became as men raised up among the dead; Great glad mouths open, and fair cheeks made red With child's blood come again.
Then I said: Now assuredly I see My lady is perfect, and transfigureth All sin and sorrow and death, Making them fair as her own eyelids be, Or lips wherein my whole soul's life abides; Or as her sweet white sides And bosom carved to kiss. Now therefore, if her pity further me, Doubtless for her sake all my days shall be As righteous as she is.
Forth, ballad, and take roses in both arms, Even till the top rose touch thee in the throat Where the least thornprick harms; And girdled in thy golden singing-coat, Come thou before my lady and say this: Borgia, thy gold hair's color burns in me, Thy mouth makes beat my blood in feverish rhymes; Therefore so many as these roses be, Kiss me so many times. Then it may be, seeing how sweet she is, That she will stoop herself none otherwise Than a blown vine-branch doth, And kiss thee with soft laughter on thine eyes, Ballad, and on thy mouth.
Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]
A LEAVE-TAKING
Let us go hence, my songs; she will not hear. Let us go hence together without fear; Keep silence now, for singing time is over, And over all old things and all things dear. She loves not you nor me as all we love her. Yea, though we sang as angels in her ear, She would not hear.
Let us rise up and part; she will not know. Let us go seaward as the great winds go, Full of blown sand and foam; what help is there? There is no help, for all these things are so, And all the world is bitter as a tear, And how these things are, though ye strove to show, She would not know.
Let us go home and hence; she will not weep. We gave love many dreams and days to keep, Flowers without scent, and fruits that would not grow, Saying, "If thou wilt, thrust in thy sickle and reap." All is reaped now; no grass is left to mow; And we that sowed, though all we fell on sleep, She would not weep.
Let us go hence and rest; she will not love. She shall not hear us if we sing hereof, Nor see love's ways how sore they are and steep. Come hence, let be, lie still; it is enough. Love is a barren sea, bitter and deep; And though she saw all heaven in flower above, She would not love.
Let us give up, go down; she will not care. Though all the stars made gold of all the air, And the sea moving saw before it move One moon-flower making all the foam-flowers fair; Though all those waves went over us, and drove Deep down the stifling lips and drowning hair, She would not care.
Let us go hence, go hence; she will not see. Sing all once more together; surely she, She too, remembering days and words that were, Will turn a little towards us, sighing; but we, We are hence, we are gone, as though we had not been there. Nay, and though all men seeing had pity on me, She would not see.
Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]
A LYRIC
There's nae lark loves the lift, my dear, There's nae ship loves the sea, There's nae bee loves the heather-bells, That loves as I love thee, my love, That loves as I love thee.
The whin shines fair upon the fell, The blithe broom on the lea: The muirside wind is merry at heart: It's a' for love of thee, my love, It's a' for love of thee.
Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]
MAUREEN
O, you plant the pain in my heart with your wistful eyes, Girl of my choice, Maureen! Will you drive me mad for the kisses your shy, sweet mouth denies, Maureen?
Like a walking ghost I am, and no words to woo, White rose of the West, Maureen: For it's pale you are, and the fear on you is over me too, Maureen!
Sure it's one complaint that's on us, asthore, this day, Bride of my dreams, Maureen: The smart of the bee that stung us his honey must cure, they say, Maureen!
I'll coax the light to your eyes, and the rose to your face, Mavourneen, my own Maureen! When I feel the warmth of your breast, and your nest is my arm's embrace, Maureen!
O where was the King o' the World that day - only me? My one true love, Maureen! And you the Queen with me there, and your throne in my heart, machree, Maureen!
John Todhunter [1839-?]
A LOVE SYMPHONY
Along the garden ways just now I heard the flowers speak; The white rose told me of your brow, The red rose of your cheek; The lily of your bended head, The bindweed of your hair; Each looked its loveliest and said You were more fair.
I went into the wood anon, And heard the wild birds sing, How sweet you were, they warbled on, Piped, trilled, the selfsame thing. Thrush, blackbird, linnet, without pause The burden did repeat, And still began again because You were more sweet.
And then I went down to the sea, And heard it murmuring too, Part of an ancient mystery, All made of me and you: How many a thousand years ago I loved, and you were sweet - Longer I could not stay, and so I fled back to your feet.
Arthur O'Shaughnessy [1844-1881]
LOVE ON THE MOUNTAIN
My love comes down from the mountain Through the mists of dawn; I look, and the star of the morning From the sky is gone.
My love comes down from the mountain, At dawn, dewy sweet; Did you step from the star to the mountain, O little white feet?
O whence came your twining tresses And your shining eyes, But out of the gold of the morning And the blue of the skies?
The misty mountain is burning In the sun's red fire, And the heart in my breast is burning And lost in desire.
I follow you into the valley But no word can I say; To the East or the West I will follow Till the dusk of my day.
Thomas Boyd [1867-
KATE TEMPLE'S SONG
Only a touch, and nothing more; Ah! but never so touched before! Touch of lip, was it? Touch of hand? Either is easy to understand. Earth may be smitten with fire or frost - Never the touch of true love lost.
Only a word, was it? Scarce a word! Musical whisper, softly heard, Syllabled nothing - just a breath - 'Twill outlast life and 'twill laugh at death. Love with so little can do so much - Only a word, sweet! Only a touch!