Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822]
THE WANDERER
Love comes back to his vacant dwelling, - The old, old Love that we knew of yore! We see him stand by the open door, With his great eyes sad, and his bosom swelling.
He makes as though in our arms repelling, He fain would lie as he lay before; - Love comes back to his vacant dwelling, - The old, old Love that we knew of yore!
Ah, who shall keep us from over-spelling That sweet forgotten, forbidden lore! E'en as we doubt in our hearts once more, With a rush of tears to our eyelids welling, Love comes back to his vacant dwelling.
Austin Dobson [1840-1921]
EGYPTIAN SERENADE
Sing again the song you sung When we were together young - When there were but you and I Underneath the summer sky.
Sing the song, and o'er and o'er Though I know that nevermore Will it seem the song you sung When we were together young.
George William Curtis [1824-1892]
THE WATER LADY
Alas, the moon should ever beam To show what man should never see! I saw a maiden on a stream, And fair was she!
I stayed awhile, to see her throw Her tresses back, that all beset The fair horizon of her brow With clouds of jet.
I stayed a little while to view Her cheek, that wore, in place of red, The bloom of water, tender blue, Daintily spread.
I stayed to watch, a little space, Her parted lips if she would sing; The waters closed above her face With many a ring.
And still I stayed a little more: Alas, she never comes again! I throw my flowers from the shore, And watch in vain.
I know my life will fade away, I know that I must vainly pine, For I am made of mortal clay, But she's divine!
Thomas Hood [1799-1845]
"TRIPPING DOWN THE FIELD-PATH"
Tripping down the field-path, Early in the morn, There I met my own love 'Midst the golden corn; Autumn winds were blowing, As in frolic chase, All her silken ringlets Backward from her face; Little time for speaking Had she, for the wind, Bonnet, scarf, or ribbon, Ever swept behind.
Still some sweet improvement In her beauty shone; Every graceful movement Won me, - one by one! As the breath of Venus Seemed the breeze of morn, Blowing thus between us, 'Midst the golden corn. Little time for wooing Had we, for the wind Still kept on undoing What we sought to bind.
Oh! that autumn morning In my heart it beams, Love's last look adorning With its dream of dreams: Still, like waters flowing In the ocean shell, Sounds of breezes blowing In my spirit dwell; Still I see the field-path; - Would that I could see Her whose graceful beauty Lost is now to me!
Charles Swain [1801-1874]
LOVE NOT
Love not, love not, ye hapless sons of clay! Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flowers - Things that are made to fade and fall away, When they have blossomed but a few short hours. Love not, love not!
Love not, love not! The thing you love may die - May perish from the gay and gladsome earth; The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky, Beam on its grave as once upon its birth. Love not, love not!
Love not, love not! The thing you love may change, The rosy lip may cease to smile on you; The kindly beaming eye grow cold and strange; The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true. Love not, love not!
Love not, love not! O warning vainly said In present years, as in the years gone by! Love flings a halo round the dear one's head, Faultless, immortal - till they change or die! Love not, love not!
Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton [1808-1877]
"A PLACE IN THY MEMORY"
A place in thy memory, Dearest! Is all that I claim: To pause and look back when thou hearest The sound of my name. Another may woo thee, nearer; Another may win and wear: I care not though he be dearer, If I am remembered there.
Remember me, not as a lover Whose hope was crossed, Whose bosom can never recover The light it hath lost! As the young bride remembers the mother She loves, though she never may see, As a sister remembers a brother, O Dearest, remember me!
Could I be thy true lover, Dearest! Couldst thou smile on me, I would be the fondest and nearest That ever loved thee: But a cloud on my pathway is glooming That never must burst upon thine; And heaven, that made thee all blooming, Ne'er made thee to wither on mine.
Remember me then! O remember My calm light love! Though bleak as the blasts of November My life may prove. That life will, though lonely, be sweet If its brightest enjoyment should be A smile and kind word when we meet, And a place in thy memory.
Gerald Griffin [1803-1840]
INCLUSIONS
Oh, wilt thou have my hand, Dear, to lie along in thine? As a little stone in a running stream, it seems to lie and pine. Now drop the poor pale hand, Dear, unfit to plight with thine.
Oh, wilt thou have my cheek, Dear, drawn closer to thine own? My cheek is white, my check is worn, by many a tear run down. Now leave a little space, Dear, lest it should wet thine own.
Oh, must thou have my soul, Dear, commingled with thy soul? - Red grows the cheek, and warm the hand; the part is in the whole; Nor hands nor cheeks keep separate, when soul is joined to soul.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]
MARIANA Mariana in the moated grange. - Measure For Measure
With blackest moss the flower-plots Were thickly crusted, one and all: The rusted nails fell from the knots That held the pear to the gable-wall. The broken sheds looked sad and strange: Unlifted was the clinking latch; Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange. She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"
Her tears fell with the dews at even; Her tears fell ere the dews were dried; She could not look on the sweet heaven, Either at morn or eventide. After the flitting of the bats, When thickest dark did trance the sky, She drew her casement-curtain by, And glanced athwart the glooming flats. She only said, "The night is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"
Upon the middle of the night, Waking she heard the night-fowl crow: The cock sung out an hour ere light: From the dark fen the oxen's low Came to her: without hope of change, In sleep she seemed to walk forlorn, Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn About the lonely moated grange. She only said, "The day is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"
About a stone-cast from the wall A sluice with blackened waters slept, And o'er it many, round and small, The clustered marish-mosses crept. Hard by a poplar shook alway, All silver-green with gnarled bark: For leagues no other tree did mark The level waste, the rounding gray. She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"
And ever when the moon was low, And the shrill winds were up and away, In the white curtain, to and fro, She saw the gusty shadow sway. But when the moon was very low, And wild winds bound within their cell, The shadow of the poplar fell Upon her bed, across her brow. She only said, "The night is dreary He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"
All day within the dreamy house, The doors upon their hinges creaked; The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse Behind the moldering wainscot shrieked, Or from the crevice peered about. Old faces glimmered through the doors, Old footsteps trod the upper floors, Old voices called her from without. She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"
The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, The slow clock ticking, and the sound Which to the wooing wind aloof The poplar made, did all confound Her sense; but most she loathed the hour When the thick-moted sunbeam lay Athwart the chambers, and the day Was sloping toward his western bower. Then, said she, "I am very dreary, He will not come," she said; She wept, "I am aweary, aweary, O God, that I were dead!"
Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]
"ASK ME NO MORE" From "The Princess"
Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea; The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape, With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape; But O too fond, when have I answered thee? Ask me no more.
Ask me no more: what answer should I give? I love not hollow cheek or faded eye: Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die! Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live; Ask me no more.
Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are sealed; I strove against the stream and all in vain; Let the great river take me to the main. No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield; Ask me no more.
Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]
A WOMAN'S LAST WORD
Let's contend no more, Love, Strive nor weep: All be as before, Love, - Only sleep!
What so wild as words are? I and thou In debate, as birds are, Hawk on bough!
See the creature stalking While we speak! Hush and hide the talking, Cheek on cheek!
What so false as truth is, False to thee? Where the serpent's tooth is Shun the tree -
Where the apple reddens Never pry - Lest we lose our Edens, Eve and I!
Be a god and hold me With a charm! Be a man and fold me With thine arm!