The Marchioness there, of Carabas, She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still, And but for her . . . well, we'll let that pass, She may marry whomever she will.
But I will marry my own first love, With her primrose face: for old things are best, And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above The brooch in my lady's breast.
The world is filled with folly and sin, And Love must cling where it can, I say: For Beauty is easy enough to win; But one isn't loved every day.
And I think, in the lives of most women and men, There's a moment when all would go smooth and even, If only the dead could find out when To come back, and be forgiven.
But O the smell of that jasmine-flower! And O that music! and O the way That voice rang out from the donjon tower, Non ti scordar di me, Non ti scordar di me!
Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton [1831-1891]
SONG
I saw the day's white rapture Die in the sunset's flame, But all her shining beauty Lives like a deathless name.
Our lamps of joy are wasted, Gone is Love's hallowed light; But you and I remember Through every starlit night.
Charles Hanson Towne [1877-
THE LONELY ROAD
I think thou waitest, Love, beyond the Gate - Eager, with wind-stirred ripples in thy hair; I have not found thee, and the hour is late, And harsh the weight I bear.
Far have I sought, and flung my wealth of years Like a young traveler, gay at careless inns - See how the wine-stain whitens 'neath the tears My burden wins!
And wilt thou know me, Love, with bended back, Or wilt thou scorn me, in so drear a guise? I have a wealth of sorrows in my pack, One lonely prize -
Thy dream - and dross of sin. . . . O, dim the fields - I may not find thee in so dark a land - Yet I await what hope the turning yields And beg with empty hand.
Kenneth Rand [1891-
EVENSONG
Beauty calls and gives no warning, Shadows rise and wander on the day. In the twilight, in the quiet evening, We shall rise and smile and go away. Over the flaming leaves Freezes the sky. It is the season grieves, Not you, not I. All our spring-times, all our summers, We have kept the longing warm within. Now we leave the after-comers To attain the dreams we did not win. Oh, we have wakened, Sweet, and had our birth, And that's the end of earth; And we have toiled and smiled and kept the light, And that's the end of night.
Ridgely Torrence [1875-
THE NYMPH'S SONG TO HYLAS From "The Life and Death of Jason"
I know a little garden-close Set thick with lily and red rose, Where I would wander if I might From dewy dawn to dewy night, And have one with me wandering.
And though within it no birds sing, And though no pillared house is there, And though the apple boughs are bare Of fruit and blossom, would to God, Her feet upon the green grass trod, And I beheld them as before!
There comes a murmur from the shore, And in the close two fair streams are, Drawn from the purple hills afar, Drawn down unto the restless sea; Dark hills whose heath-bloom feeds no bee, Dark shore no ship has ever seen, Tormented by the billows green, Whose murmur comes unceasingly Unto the place for which I cry.
For which I cry both day and night, For which I let slip all delight, Whereby I grow both deaf and blind, Careless to win, unskilled to find, And quick to lose what all men seek.
Yet tottering as I am, and weak, Still have I left a little breath To seek within the jaws of death An entrance to that happy place; To seek the unforgotten face Once seen, once kissed, once reft from me Anigh the murmuring of the sea.
William Morris [1834-1896]
NO AND YES
If I could choose my paradise, And please myself with choice of bliss, Then I would have your soft blue eyes And rosy little mouth to kiss! Your lips, as smooth and tender, child, As rose-leaves in a coppice wild.
If fate bade choose some sweet unrest, To weave my troubled life a snare, Then I would say "her maiden breast And golden ripple of her hair"; And weep amid those tresses, child, Contented to be thus beguiled.
Thomas Ashe [1836-1889]
LOVE IN DREAMS
Love hath his poppy-wreath, Not Night alone. I laid my head beneath Love's lilied throne: Then to my sleep he brought This anodyne - The flower of many a thought And fancy fine: A form, a face, no more; Fairer than truth; A dream from death's pale shore; The soul of youth: A dream so dear, so deep, All dreams above, That still I pray to sleep - Bring Love back, Love!
John Addington Symonds [1840-1893]
"A LITTLE WHILE I FAIN WOULD LINGER YET"
A little while (my life is almost set!) I fain would pause along the downward way, Musing an hour in this sad sunset-ray, While, Sweet! our eyes with tender tears are wet: A little hour I fain would linger yet.
A little while I fain would linger yet, All for love's sake, for love that cannot tire; Though fervid youth be dead, with youth's desire, And hope has faded to a vague regret, A little while I fain would linger yet.
A little while I fain would linger here: Behold! who knows what strange, mysterious bars 'Twixt souls that love may rise in other stars? Nor can love deem the face of death is fair: A little while I still would linger here.
A little while I yearn to hold thee fast, Hand locked in hand, and loyal heart to heart; (O pitying Christ! those woeful words, "We part!") So, ere the darkness fall, the light be past, A little while I fain would hold thee fast.
A little while, when light and twilight meet, - Behind, our broken years; before, the deep Weird wonder of the last unfathomed sleep, - A little while I still would clasp thee, Sweet, A little while, when night and twilight meet.
A little while I fain would linger here; Behold! who knows what soul-dividing bars Earth's faithful loves may part in other stars? Nor can love deem the face of death is fair: A little while I still would linger here.
Paul Hamilton Hayne [1830-1886]
SONG
I made another garden, yea, For my new Love: I left the dead rose where it lay And set the new above. Why did my Summer not begin? Why did my heart not haste? My old Love came and walked therein, And laid the garden waste.
She entered with her weary smile, Just as of old; She looked around a little while And shivered with the cold: Her passing touch was death to all, Her passing look a blight; She made the white rose-petals fall, And turned the red rose white.
Her pale robe clinging to the grass Seemed like a snake That bit the grass and ground, alas! And a sad trail did make. She went up slowly to the gate, And there, just as of yore, She turned back at the last to wait And say farewell once more.
Arthur O'Shaughnessy [1844-1881]
SONG
Has summer come without the rose, Or left the bird behind? Is the blue changed above thee, O world! or am I blind? Will you change every flower that grows, Or only change this spot, Where she who said, I love thee, Now says, I love thee not?
The skies seemed true above thee, The rose true on the tree; The bird seemed true the summer through, But all proved false to me. World! is there one good thing in you, Life, love, or death - or what? Since lips that sang, I love thee, Have said, I love thee not?
I think the sun's kiss will scarce fall Into one flower's gold cup; I think the bird will miss me, And give the summer up. O sweet place! desolate in tall Wild grass, have you forgot How her lips loved to kiss me, Now that they kiss me not?
Be false or fair above me, Come back with any face, Summer! - do I care what you do? You cannot change one place - The grass, the leaves, the earth, the dew, The grave I make the spot - Here, where she used to love me, Here, where she loves me not.
Arthur O'Shaughnessy [1844-1881]
AFTER
A little time for laughter, A little time to sing, A little time to kiss and cling, And no more kissing after.
A little while for scheming Love's unperfected schemes; A little time for golden dreams, Then no more any dreaming.
A little while 'twas given To me to have thy love; Now, like a ghost, alone I move About a ruined heaven.
A little time for speaking Things sweet to say and hear; A time to seek, and find thee near, Then no more any seeking.
A little time for saying Words the heart breaks to say; A short sharp time wherein to pray, Then no more need of praying;
But long, long years to weep in, And comprehend the whole Great grief that desolates the soul, And eternity to sleep in.
Philip Bourke Marston [1850-1887]
AFTER SUMMER
We'll not weep for summer over, - No, not we: Strew above his head the clover, - Let him be!
Other eyes may weep his dying, Shed their tears There upon him, where he's lying With his peers.
Unto some of them he proffered Gifts most sweet; For our hearts a grave he offered, - Was this meet?
All our fond hopes, praying, perished In his wrath, - All the lovely dreams we cherished Strewed his path.
Shall we in our tombs, I wonder, Far apart, Sundered wide as seas can sunder Heart from heart,
Dream at all of all the sorrows That were ours, - Bitter nights, more bitter morrows; Poison-flowers
Summer gathered, as in madness, Saying, "See, These are yours, in place of gladness, - Gifts from me"?
Nay, the rest that will be ours Is supreme, - And below the poppy flowers Steals no dream.