I ARISE from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright.
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Hath led me — who knows how?
To the chamber window, sweet!
The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream—
The chainpak odors fail
Like sweet thoughts in a dream
The nightingale's complaint
It dies upon her heart,
As I must die on thine,
Beloved as thou art!
Oh, lift me from the grass!
I die, I faint, I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My heart beats loud and fast:
Oh! press it close to thine again,
Where it will break at last.
Percy Bysshe Shelley.
Tuesday 21 December 2010
The Happy Townland
THERE'S many a strong farmer
Whose heart would break in two,
If he could see the townland
That we are riding to;
Boughs have their fruit and blossom
At all times of the year;
Rivers are running over
With red beer and brown beer.
An old man plays the bagpipes
In a golden and silver wood;
Queens, their eyes blue like the ice,
Are dancing in a crowd.
The little fox he murmured,
'O what of the world's bane?'
The sun was laughing sweetly,
The moon plucked at my rein;
But the little red fox murmured,
'O do not pluck at his rein,
He is riding to the townland
That is the world's bane.'
When their hearts are so high
That they would come to blows,
They unhook rheir heavy swords
From golden and silver boughs;
But all that are killed in battle
Awaken to life again.
It is lucky that their story
Is not known among men,
For O, the strong farmers
That would let the spade lie,
Their hearts would be like a cup
That somebody had drunk dry.
The little fox he murmured,
'O what of the world's bane?'
The sun was laughing sweetly,
The moon plucked at my rcin;
But the little red fox murmured,
'O do not pluck at his rein,
He is riding to the townland
That is the world's bane.'
Michael will unhook his trumpet
From a bough overhead,
And blow a little noise
When the supper has been spread.
Gabriel will come from the water
With a fish-tail, and talk
Of wonders that have happened
On wet roads where men walk.
And lift up an old horn
Of hammered silver, and drink
Till he has fallen asleep
Upon the starry brink.
The little fox he murmured,
'O what of the world's bane?'
The sun was laughing sweetly,
The moon plucked at my rein;
But the little red fox murmured.
'O do not pluck at his rein,
He is riding to the townland
That is the world's bane.'
William Butler Yeats
Whose heart would break in two,
If he could see the townland
That we are riding to;
Boughs have their fruit and blossom
At all times of the year;
Rivers are running over
With red beer and brown beer.
An old man plays the bagpipes
In a golden and silver wood;
Queens, their eyes blue like the ice,
Are dancing in a crowd.
The little fox he murmured,
'O what of the world's bane?'
The sun was laughing sweetly,
The moon plucked at my rein;
But the little red fox murmured,
'O do not pluck at his rein,
He is riding to the townland
That is the world's bane.'
When their hearts are so high
That they would come to blows,
They unhook rheir heavy swords
From golden and silver boughs;
But all that are killed in battle
Awaken to life again.
It is lucky that their story
Is not known among men,
For O, the strong farmers
That would let the spade lie,
Their hearts would be like a cup
That somebody had drunk dry.
The little fox he murmured,
'O what of the world's bane?'
The sun was laughing sweetly,
The moon plucked at my rcin;
But the little red fox murmured,
'O do not pluck at his rein,
He is riding to the townland
That is the world's bane.'
Michael will unhook his trumpet
From a bough overhead,
And blow a little noise
When the supper has been spread.
Gabriel will come from the water
With a fish-tail, and talk
Of wonders that have happened
On wet roads where men walk.
And lift up an old horn
Of hammered silver, and drink
Till he has fallen asleep
Upon the starry brink.
The little fox he murmured,
'O what of the world's bane?'
The sun was laughing sweetly,
The moon plucked at my rein;
But the little red fox murmured.
'O do not pluck at his rein,
He is riding to the townland
That is the world's bane.'
William Butler Yeats
Immortality Of Love
They sin who tell us love can die,
With life all other passions fly,
All others are but vanity ;
In heaven ambition cannot dwell,
Nor avarice in the vaults of hell
Earthly these passions of the earth,
They perish where they have their birth
But love is indestructible :
Its holy flame forever burneth ;
From heaven it came, to heaven returneth.
Too oft on earth a troubled guest,
At times deceived, at times oppressed,
It here is tried and purified,
Then hath in heaven its perfect rest
It soweth here with toil and care,
But the harvest-time of love is there.
Robert Southey.
With life all other passions fly,
All others are but vanity ;
In heaven ambition cannot dwell,
Nor avarice in the vaults of hell
Earthly these passions of the earth,
They perish where they have their birth
But love is indestructible :
Its holy flame forever burneth ;
From heaven it came, to heaven returneth.
Too oft on earth a troubled guest,
At times deceived, at times oppressed,
It here is tried and purified,
Then hath in heaven its perfect rest
It soweth here with toil and care,
But the harvest-time of love is there.
Robert Southey.
A Red Red Rose
Oh, my luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June!
Oh, my luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly play'd in tune!
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear.
And the rocks melt wi' the sun.
And I will luve thee still, my dear.
While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve!
And fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my luve,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile.
Robert Burns.
That's newly sprung in June!
Oh, my luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly play'd in tune!
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear.
And the rocks melt wi' the sun.
And I will luve thee still, my dear.
While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve!
And fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my luve,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile.
Robert Burns.
A Love Token
Do you grieve no costly offering
To the Lady you can make ?
One there is, and gifts less worthy
Queens have stooped to take.
Take a Heart of virgin silver,
Fashion it with heavy blows,
Cast it into Love's hot furnace
When it fiercest glows.
With Pain's sharpest point transfix it,
And then carve, in letters fair,
Tender dreams and quaint devices,
Fancies sweet and rare.
Set within it Hope's blue sapphire,
Many-changing opal fears.
Blood-red ruby-stones of daring.
Mixed with pearly tears.
And when you have wrought and labored
Till the gift is all complete,
You may humbly lay your offering
At the Lady's feet.
Should her mood perchance be gracious,
With disdainful, smiling pride.
She will place it with the trinkets
Glittering at her side.
Adelaide Anne Procter.
To the Lady you can make ?
One there is, and gifts less worthy
Queens have stooped to take.
Take a Heart of virgin silver,
Fashion it with heavy blows,
Cast it into Love's hot furnace
When it fiercest glows.
With Pain's sharpest point transfix it,
And then carve, in letters fair,
Tender dreams and quaint devices,
Fancies sweet and rare.
Set within it Hope's blue sapphire,
Many-changing opal fears.
Blood-red ruby-stones of daring.
Mixed with pearly tears.
And when you have wrought and labored
Till the gift is all complete,
You may humbly lay your offering
At the Lady's feet.
Should her mood perchance be gracious,
With disdainful, smiling pride.
She will place it with the trinkets
Glittering at her side.
Adelaide Anne Procter.
The Grey Rock
Poets with whom I learned my trade.
Companions of the Cheshire Cheese,
Here's an old story I've remade,
Imagining 'twould better please
Your cars than stories now in fashion,
Though you may think I waste my breath
Pretending that there can be passion
That has more life in it than death,
And though at bottling of your wine
Old wholesome Goban had no say;
The moral's yours because it's mine.
When cups went round at close of day --
Is not that how good stories run? --
The gods were sitting at the board
In their great house at Slievenamon.
They sang a drowsy song, Or snored,
For all were full of wine and meat.
The smoky torches made a glare
On metal Goban 'd hammered at,
On old deep silver rolling there
Or on somc still unemptied cup
That he, when frenzy stirred his thews,
Had hammered out on mountain top
To hold the sacred stuff he brews
That only gods may buy of him.
Now from that juice that made them wise
All those had lifted up the dim
Imaginations of their eyes,
For one that was like woman made
Before their sleepy eyelids ran
And trembling with her passion said,
'Come out and dig for a dead man,
Who's burrowing Somewhere in the ground
And mock him to his face and then
Hollo him on with horse and hound,
For he is the worst of all dead men.'
We should be dazed and terror-struck,
If we but saw in dreams that room,
Those wine-drenched eyes, and curse our luck
That empticd all our days to come.
I knew a woman none could please,
Because she dreamed when but a child
Of men and women made like these;
And after, when her blood ran wild,
Had ravelled her own story out,
And said, 'In two or in three years
I needs must marry some poor lout,'
And having said it, burst in tears.
Since, tavern comrades, you have died,
Maybe your images have stood,
Mere bone and muscle thrown aside,
Before that roomful or as good.
You had to face your ends when young -
'Twas wine or women, or some curse -
But never made a poorer song
That you might have a heavier purse,
Nor gave loud service to a cause
That you might have a troop of friends,
You kept the Muses' sterner laws,
And unrepenting faced your ends,
And therefore earned the right - and yet
Dowson and Johnson most I praise -
To troop with those the world's forgot,
And copy their proud steady gaze.
'The Danish troop was driven out
Between the dawn and dusk,' she said;
'Although the event was long in doubt.
Although the King of Ireland's dead
And half the kings, before sundown
All was accomplished.
'When this day
Murrough, the King of Ireland's son,
Foot after foot was giving way,
He and his best troops back to back
Had perished there, but the Danes ran,
Stricken with panic from the attack,
The shouting of an unseen man;
And being thankful Murrough found,
Led by a footsole dipped in blood
That had made prints upon the ground,
Where by old thorn-trees that man stood;
And though when he gazed here and there,
He had but gazed on thorn-trees, spoke,
"Who is the friend that seems but air
And yet could give so fine a stroke?"
Thereon a young man met his eye,
Who said, "Because she held me in
Her love, and would not have me die,
Rock-nurtured Aoife took a pin,
And pushing it into my shirt,
Promised that for a pin's sake
No man should see to do me hurt;
But there it's gone; I will not take
The fortune that had been my shame
Seeing, King's son, what wounds you have."
'Twas roundly spoke, but when night came
He had betrayed me to his grave,
For he and the King's son were dead.
I'd promised him two hundred years,
And when for all I'd done or said --
And these immortal eyes shed tears --
He claimed his country's need was most,
I'd saved his life, yet for the sake
Of a new friend he has turned a ghost.
What does he cate if my heart break?
I call for spade and horse and hound
That we may harry him.' Thereon
She cast herself upon the ground
And rent her clothes and made her moan:
'Why are they faithless when their might
Is from the holy shades that rove
The grey rock and the windy light?
Why should the faithfullest heart most love
The bitter sweetness of false faces?
Why must the lasting love what passes,
Why are the gods by men betrayed?'
But thereon every god stood up
With a slow smile and without sound,
And Stretching forth his arm and cup
To where she moaned upon the ground,
Suddenly drenched her to the skin;
And she with Goban's wine adrip,
No more remembering what had been.
Stared at the gods with laughing lip.
I have kept my faith, though faith was tried,
To that rock-born, rock-wandering foot,
And thc world's altered since you died,
And I am in no good repute
With the loud host before the sea,
That think sword-strokes were better meant
Than lover's music -- let that be,
So that the wandering foot's content.
Companions of the Cheshire Cheese,
Here's an old story I've remade,
Imagining 'twould better please
Your cars than stories now in fashion,
Though you may think I waste my breath
Pretending that there can be passion
That has more life in it than death,
And though at bottling of your wine
Old wholesome Goban had no say;
The moral's yours because it's mine.
When cups went round at close of day --
Is not that how good stories run? --
The gods were sitting at the board
In their great house at Slievenamon.
They sang a drowsy song, Or snored,
For all were full of wine and meat.
The smoky torches made a glare
On metal Goban 'd hammered at,
On old deep silver rolling there
Or on somc still unemptied cup
That he, when frenzy stirred his thews,
Had hammered out on mountain top
To hold the sacred stuff he brews
That only gods may buy of him.
Now from that juice that made them wise
All those had lifted up the dim
Imaginations of their eyes,
For one that was like woman made
Before their sleepy eyelids ran
And trembling with her passion said,
'Come out and dig for a dead man,
Who's burrowing Somewhere in the ground
And mock him to his face and then
Hollo him on with horse and hound,
For he is the worst of all dead men.'
We should be dazed and terror-struck,
If we but saw in dreams that room,
Those wine-drenched eyes, and curse our luck
That empticd all our days to come.
I knew a woman none could please,
Because she dreamed when but a child
Of men and women made like these;
And after, when her blood ran wild,
Had ravelled her own story out,
And said, 'In two or in three years
I needs must marry some poor lout,'
And having said it, burst in tears.
Since, tavern comrades, you have died,
Maybe your images have stood,
Mere bone and muscle thrown aside,
Before that roomful or as good.
You had to face your ends when young -
'Twas wine or women, or some curse -
But never made a poorer song
That you might have a heavier purse,
Nor gave loud service to a cause
That you might have a troop of friends,
You kept the Muses' sterner laws,
And unrepenting faced your ends,
And therefore earned the right - and yet
Dowson and Johnson most I praise -
To troop with those the world's forgot,
And copy their proud steady gaze.
'The Danish troop was driven out
Between the dawn and dusk,' she said;
'Although the event was long in doubt.
Although the King of Ireland's dead
And half the kings, before sundown
All was accomplished.
'When this day
Murrough, the King of Ireland's son,
Foot after foot was giving way,
He and his best troops back to back
Had perished there, but the Danes ran,
Stricken with panic from the attack,
The shouting of an unseen man;
And being thankful Murrough found,
Led by a footsole dipped in blood
That had made prints upon the ground,
Where by old thorn-trees that man stood;
And though when he gazed here and there,
He had but gazed on thorn-trees, spoke,
"Who is the friend that seems but air
And yet could give so fine a stroke?"
Thereon a young man met his eye,
Who said, "Because she held me in
Her love, and would not have me die,
Rock-nurtured Aoife took a pin,
And pushing it into my shirt,
Promised that for a pin's sake
No man should see to do me hurt;
But there it's gone; I will not take
The fortune that had been my shame
Seeing, King's son, what wounds you have."
'Twas roundly spoke, but when night came
He had betrayed me to his grave,
For he and the King's son were dead.
I'd promised him two hundred years,
And when for all I'd done or said --
And these immortal eyes shed tears --
He claimed his country's need was most,
I'd saved his life, yet for the sake
Of a new friend he has turned a ghost.
What does he cate if my heart break?
I call for spade and horse and hound
That we may harry him.' Thereon
She cast herself upon the ground
And rent her clothes and made her moan:
'Why are they faithless when their might
Is from the holy shades that rove
The grey rock and the windy light?
Why should the faithfullest heart most love
The bitter sweetness of false faces?
Why must the lasting love what passes,
Why are the gods by men betrayed?'
But thereon every god stood up
With a slow smile and without sound,
And Stretching forth his arm and cup
To where she moaned upon the ground,
Suddenly drenched her to the skin;
And she with Goban's wine adrip,
No more remembering what had been.
Stared at the gods with laughing lip.
I have kept my faith, though faith was tried,
To that rock-born, rock-wandering foot,
And thc world's altered since you died,
And I am in no good repute
With the loud host before the sea,
That think sword-strokes were better meant
Than lover's music -- let that be,
So that the wandering foot's content.
Changes
Whom first we love, you know, we seldom wed.
Time rules us all. And Life, indeed, is not
The thing we planned it out ere hope was dead.
And then, we women cannot choose our lot.
Much must be borne which it is hard to bear
Much given away which it were sweet to keep.
God help us all! who need, indeed his care.
And yet, I know the Shepherd loves his sheep.
My little boy begins to babble now
Upon my knee his earliest infant prayer.
He has his father's eager eyes I know
And, they say, too, his mother's sunny hair.
But when he sleeps and smiles upon my knee,
And I can feel his light breath come and go,
I think of one ^Heaven help and pity me!)
Who loved me, and whom I loved, long ago
Who might have been ... ah what, I dare not think!
We are all changed. God judges for us best.
God help us do our duty, and not shrink.
And trust in Heaven humbly for the rest!
But blame us women not, if some appear
Too cold at times ; and some too gay and light.
Some griefs gnaw deep. Some woes are hard to
bear.
Who knows the past? and who can judge us right?
Ah! were we judged by what we might have been,
And not by what we are — too apt to fall!
My little child— he sleeps and smiles between
These thoughts and me. In heaven we shall know
all!
Robert Bulwer Lytton,
Time rules us all. And Life, indeed, is not
The thing we planned it out ere hope was dead.
And then, we women cannot choose our lot.
Much must be borne which it is hard to bear
Much given away which it were sweet to keep.
God help us all! who need, indeed his care.
And yet, I know the Shepherd loves his sheep.
My little boy begins to babble now
Upon my knee his earliest infant prayer.
He has his father's eager eyes I know
And, they say, too, his mother's sunny hair.
But when he sleeps and smiles upon my knee,
And I can feel his light breath come and go,
I think of one ^Heaven help and pity me!)
Who loved me, and whom I loved, long ago
Who might have been ... ah what, I dare not think!
We are all changed. God judges for us best.
God help us do our duty, and not shrink.
And trust in Heaven humbly for the rest!
But blame us women not, if some appear
Too cold at times ; and some too gay and light.
Some griefs gnaw deep. Some woes are hard to
bear.
Who knows the past? and who can judge us right?
Ah! were we judged by what we might have been,
And not by what we are — too apt to fall!
My little child— he sleeps and smiles between
These thoughts and me. In heaven we shall know
all!
Robert Bulwer Lytton,
On Woman
May God be praised for woman
That gives up all her mind,
A man may find in no man
A friendship of her kind
That covers all he has brought
As with her flesh and bone,
Nor quarrels with a thought
Because it is not her own.
Though pedantry denies,
It's plain the Bible means
That Solomon grew wise
While talking with his queens.
Yet never could, although
They say he counted grass,
Count all the praises due
When Sheba was his lass,
When she the iron wrought, or
When from the smithy fire
It shuddered in the water:
Harshness of their desire
That made them stretch and yawn,
pleasure that comes with sleep,
Shudder that made them one.
What else He give or keep
God grant me -- no, not here,
For I am not so bold
To hope a thing so dear
Now I am growing old,
But when, if the tale's true,
The Pestle of the moon
That pounds up all anew
Brings me to birth again --
To find what once I had
And know what once I have known,
Until I am driven mad,
Sleep driven from my bed.
By tenderness and care.
pity, an aching head,
Gnashing of teeth, despair;
And all because of some one
perverse creature of chance,
And live like Solomon
That Sheba led a dance.
William Butler Yeats
That gives up all her mind,
A man may find in no man
A friendship of her kind
That covers all he has brought
As with her flesh and bone,
Nor quarrels with a thought
Because it is not her own.
Though pedantry denies,
It's plain the Bible means
That Solomon grew wise
While talking with his queens.
Yet never could, although
They say he counted grass,
Count all the praises due
When Sheba was his lass,
When she the iron wrought, or
When from the smithy fire
It shuddered in the water:
Harshness of their desire
That made them stretch and yawn,
pleasure that comes with sleep,
Shudder that made them one.
What else He give or keep
God grant me -- no, not here,
For I am not so bold
To hope a thing so dear
Now I am growing old,
But when, if the tale's true,
The Pestle of the moon
That pounds up all anew
Brings me to birth again --
To find what once I had
And know what once I have known,
Until I am driven mad,
Sleep driven from my bed.
By tenderness and care.
pity, an aching head,
Gnashing of teeth, despair;
And all because of some one
perverse creature of chance,
And live like Solomon
That Sheba led a dance.
William Butler Yeats
Never Give All The Heart
NEVER give all the heart, for love
Will hardly seem worth thinking of
To passionate women if it seem
Certain, and they never dream
That it fades out from kiss to kiss;
For everything that's lovely is
But a brief, dreamy. Kind delight.
O never give the heart outright,
For they, for all smooth lips can say,
Have given their hearts up to the play.
And who could play it well enough
If deaf and dumb and blind with love?
He that made this knows all the cost,
For he gave all his heart and lost.
Will hardly seem worth thinking of
To passionate women if it seem
Certain, and they never dream
That it fades out from kiss to kiss;
For everything that's lovely is
But a brief, dreamy. Kind delight.
O never give the heart outright,
For they, for all smooth lips can say,
Have given their hearts up to the play.
And who could play it well enough
If deaf and dumb and blind with love?
He that made this knows all the cost,
For he gave all his heart and lost.
Demon And Beast
FOR certain minutes at the least
That crafty demon and that loud beast
That plague me day and night
Ran out of my sight;
Though I had long perned in the gyre,
Between my hatred and desire.
I saw my freedom won
And all laugh in the sun.
The glittering eyes in a death's head
Of old Luke Wadding's portrait said
Welcome, and the Ormondes all
Nodded upon the wall,
And even Strafford smiled as though
It made him happier to know
I understood his plan.
Now that the loud beast ran
There was no portrait in the Gallery
But beckoned to sweet company,
For all men's thoughts grew clear
Being dear as mine are dear.
But soon a tear-drop started up,
For aimless joy had made me stop
Beside the little lake
To watch a white gull take
A bit of bread thrown up into the air;
Now gyring down and perning there
He splashed where an absurd
Portly green-pated bird
Shook off the water from his back;
Being no more demoniac
A stupid happy creature
Could rouse my whole nature.
Yet I am certain as can be
That every natural victory
Belongs to beast or demon,
That never yet had freeman
Right mastery of natural things,
And that mere growing old, that brings
Chilled blood, this sweetness brought;
Yet have no dearer thought
Than that I may find out a way
To make it linger half a day.
O what a sweetness strayed
Through barren Thebaid,
Or by the Mareotic sea
When that exultant Anthony
And twice a thousand more
Starved upon the shore
And withered to a bag of bones!
What had the Caesars but their thrones?
William Butler Yeats
That crafty demon and that loud beast
That plague me day and night
Ran out of my sight;
Though I had long perned in the gyre,
Between my hatred and desire.
I saw my freedom won
And all laugh in the sun.
The glittering eyes in a death's head
Of old Luke Wadding's portrait said
Welcome, and the Ormondes all
Nodded upon the wall,
And even Strafford smiled as though
It made him happier to know
I understood his plan.
Now that the loud beast ran
There was no portrait in the Gallery
But beckoned to sweet company,
For all men's thoughts grew clear
Being dear as mine are dear.
But soon a tear-drop started up,
For aimless joy had made me stop
Beside the little lake
To watch a white gull take
A bit of bread thrown up into the air;
Now gyring down and perning there
He splashed where an absurd
Portly green-pated bird
Shook off the water from his back;
Being no more demoniac
A stupid happy creature
Could rouse my whole nature.
Yet I am certain as can be
That every natural victory
Belongs to beast or demon,
That never yet had freeman
Right mastery of natural things,
And that mere growing old, that brings
Chilled blood, this sweetness brought;
Yet have no dearer thought
Than that I may find out a way
To make it linger half a day.
O what a sweetness strayed
Through barren Thebaid,
Or by the Mareotic sea
When that exultant Anthony
And twice a thousand more
Starved upon the shore
And withered to a bag of bones!
What had the Caesars but their thrones?
William Butler Yeats
If To Thy Heart I Were As Near
If to thy heart I were as near
As thou art near to mine,
rd hardly care though a' the year
Nae sun on earth suld shine, my dear!
Nae sun on earth suld shine!
Twin starries are thy glancing een, —
A warld they'd licht, and mair
And gin that ye be my Christine,
Ae blink to me ye'U spare, my dear,
Ae blink to me ye'U spare
My leesome may I've wooed too lang
Aneath the trystin' tree
I've sung till a' the plantins rang
Wi' lays o' love for thee, my dear,
Wi' lays o' love for thee!
The dew-draps glisten on the green,
The laverlocks lilt on high.
We'll forth and down the lane, Christine,
And kiss when nane is nigh, my dear.
And kiss when nane is nigh!
William Motherwell
As thou art near to mine,
rd hardly care though a' the year
Nae sun on earth suld shine, my dear!
Nae sun on earth suld shine!
Twin starries are thy glancing een, —
A warld they'd licht, and mair
And gin that ye be my Christine,
Ae blink to me ye'U spare, my dear,
Ae blink to me ye'U spare
My leesome may I've wooed too lang
Aneath the trystin' tree
I've sung till a' the plantins rang
Wi' lays o' love for thee, my dear,
Wi' lays o' love for thee!
The dew-draps glisten on the green,
The laverlocks lilt on high.
We'll forth and down the lane, Christine,
And kiss when nane is nigh, my dear.
And kiss when nane is nigh!
William Motherwell
A Match
If love were what the rose is,
And I were like the leaf.
Our lives would grow together
In sad or singing weather.
Blown fields or flowerful closes,
Green pleasure or gray grief;
If love were what the rose is,
And I were like the leaf.
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 liie, 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.
And I were like the leaf.
Our lives would grow together
In sad or singing weather.
Blown fields or flowerful closes,
Green pleasure or gray grief;
If love were what the rose is,
And I were like the leaf.
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 liie, 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.
Lost Love
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove ;
A maid whom there were none to praise,
And very few to love.
A violet by a mossy stone
Half-hidden from the eye! —Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be
But she is in her grave, and O!
The difference to me!
William Wordsworth.
Beside the springs of Dove ;
A maid whom there were none to praise,
And very few to love.
A violet by a mossy stone
Half-hidden from the eye! —Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be
But she is in her grave, and O!
The difference to me!
William Wordsworth.
Love
All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
All are but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.
Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I lay
Beside the ruin'd tower.
The moonshine stealing o'er the scene
Had blended with the lights of eve ;
And she was there, my hope, my joy.
My own dear Genevieve!
She lean'd against the armed man,
The statue of the armed knight
She stood and listened to my lay,
Amid the lingering light.
Few sorrows hath she of her own,
My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!
She loves me best, w^hene'er I sing
The songs that make her grieve.
I play'd a soft and doleful air,
I sang an old and moving story—
An old rude song, that suited well
That ruin wild and hoary.
She listen'd with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace ;
For well she knew, I could not choose
But gaze upon her face.
I told her of the Knight that wore
Upon his shield a burning brand ;
And that for ten long years he woo'd
The Lady of the Land.
I told her how he pined : and ah!
The deep, the low, the pleading tone
With which I sang anotlier's love
Interpreted my own.
She listened with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes, and modest grace
And she forgave me, that I gazed
Too fondly on her face.
But when I told the cruel scorn
That crazed that bold and lovely Knight,
And that he crossed the mountain-woods,
Nor rested day nor night
That sometimes from the savage den,
And sometimes from the darksome shade,
And sometimes starting up at once
In green and sunny glade,
There came and looked him in the face
An angel beautiful and bright
And that he knew it was a Fiend,
This miserable Knight!
And that unknowing what he did,
He leaped amid a murderous band,
And saved from outrage worse than death
The Lady of the Land ;
And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees
And how she tended him in vain
And ever strove to expiate
The scorn that crazed his brain
And that she nursed him in a cave,
And how his madness went away.
When on the yellow forest-leaves
A dying man he lay ;
— His dying words — but when I reach'd
That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
My faltering voice and pausing harp
Disturbed her soul with pity!
All impulses of soul and sense
Had thrilPd my guileless Genevieve ;
The music and the doleful tale,
The rich and balmy eve ;
And hopes and fears that kindle hope,
An undistinguishable throng,
And gentle wishes long subdued,
Subdued and cherished long;.
She wept with pity and delight,
She blush'd with love, and virgin shame
And like the murmur of a dream,
I heard her breathe my name.
Her bosom heaved— she stepp'd aside,
As conscious of my look she stept —
Then suddenly, with timorous eye.
She fled to me and wept.
She half enclosed me with her arms,
She press'd me with a meek embrace
And bending back her head, looked up,
And gazed upon my face.
'Twas partly love, and partly fear,
And partly 'twas a bashful art
That I might rather feel than see
The swelling of her heart.
I calm''d her fears, and she was calm.
And told her love with virgin pride
And so I won my Genevieve,
My bright and beauteous Bride.
S. T. Coleridge.
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
All are but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.
Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I lay
Beside the ruin'd tower.
The moonshine stealing o'er the scene
Had blended with the lights of eve ;
And she was there, my hope, my joy.
My own dear Genevieve!
She lean'd against the armed man,
The statue of the armed knight
She stood and listened to my lay,
Amid the lingering light.
Few sorrows hath she of her own,
My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!
She loves me best, w^hene'er I sing
The songs that make her grieve.
I play'd a soft and doleful air,
I sang an old and moving story—
An old rude song, that suited well
That ruin wild and hoary.
She listen'd with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace ;
For well she knew, I could not choose
But gaze upon her face.
I told her of the Knight that wore
Upon his shield a burning brand ;
And that for ten long years he woo'd
The Lady of the Land.
I told her how he pined : and ah!
The deep, the low, the pleading tone
With which I sang anotlier's love
Interpreted my own.
She listened with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes, and modest grace
And she forgave me, that I gazed
Too fondly on her face.
But when I told the cruel scorn
That crazed that bold and lovely Knight,
And that he crossed the mountain-woods,
Nor rested day nor night
That sometimes from the savage den,
And sometimes from the darksome shade,
And sometimes starting up at once
In green and sunny glade,
There came and looked him in the face
An angel beautiful and bright
And that he knew it was a Fiend,
This miserable Knight!
And that unknowing what he did,
He leaped amid a murderous band,
And saved from outrage worse than death
The Lady of the Land ;
And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees
And how she tended him in vain
And ever strove to expiate
The scorn that crazed his brain
And that she nursed him in a cave,
And how his madness went away.
When on the yellow forest-leaves
A dying man he lay ;
— His dying words — but when I reach'd
That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
My faltering voice and pausing harp
Disturbed her soul with pity!
All impulses of soul and sense
Had thrilPd my guileless Genevieve ;
The music and the doleful tale,
The rich and balmy eve ;
And hopes and fears that kindle hope,
An undistinguishable throng,
And gentle wishes long subdued,
Subdued and cherished long;.
She wept with pity and delight,
She blush'd with love, and virgin shame
And like the murmur of a dream,
I heard her breathe my name.
Her bosom heaved— she stepp'd aside,
As conscious of my look she stept —
Then suddenly, with timorous eye.
She fled to me and wept.
She half enclosed me with her arms,
She press'd me with a meek embrace
And bending back her head, looked up,
And gazed upon my face.
'Twas partly love, and partly fear,
And partly 'twas a bashful art
That I might rather feel than see
The swelling of her heart.
I calm''d her fears, and she was calm.
And told her love with virgin pride
And so I won my Genevieve,
My bright and beauteous Bride.
S. T. Coleridge.
The Dream
I
Our life is twofold
Sleep hath its own world,
A boundary between the things misnamed
Death and existence : Sleep hath its own world,
And a wide realm of wild reality.
And dreams in their development have breath.
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy;
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,
They take a v/eight from off our waking toils,
They do divide our being ; they become
A portion of ourselves as of our time,
And look like heralds of eternity
They pass like spirits of the past, — they speak
Like sibyls of the future ; they have power
The tyranny of pleasure and of pain ;
They make us what we were not — what they will
And shake us with the vision that's gone by,
The dread of vanished shadows — Are they so ?
Is not the past all shadow? What are they?
Creations of the mind? — The mind can make
Substance, and people planets of its own
With beings brighter than have been, and give
A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.
I would recall a vision which I dream'd
Perchance in sleep— for in itself a thought,
A slumbering thought, is capable of years,'
And curdles a long life into one hour.
II
I saw two beings in the hues of youth
Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill.
Green and of mild declivity, the last
As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such,
Save that there was no sea to lave its base.
But a most living landscape, and the wave
Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of
Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke
Arising from such rustic roofs ; — the hill
Was crowned with a peculiar diadem
Of trees, in circular array, so fix'd,
Not by the sport of nature, but of man
These two, a maiden and a youth, were there
Gazing — the one on all that was beneath
Fair as herself— but the boy gazed on her;
And both were young, and one was beautiful :
And both were young — yet not alike in youth.
As the sweet moon on the horizon^s verge,
The maid was on the eve of womanhood
The boy had fewer summers, but his heart
Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye
There was but one beloved face on earth,
And that was shining on him ; he had look'd
Upon it till it could not pass away
He had no breath, no being, but in hers ;
She was his voice ; he did not speak to her,
But trembled on her words ; she was his sight,
For his eye followed hers, and saw with hers,
Which color'd all his objects : — he had ceased
To live within himself; she was his life.
The ocean to the river of his thoughts,
Which terminated all : upon a tone.
A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow.
And his cheek change tempestuously — his heart
Unknowing of its cause of agony.
But she in these fond feelings had no share
Her sighs were not for him ; to her he was
Even as a brother — but no more ; Hwas much
For brotherless she was, save in the name
Her infant friendship had bestow'd on him
Herself the solitary scion left
Of a time-honor'd race. — It was a name
Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not—and why?
Time taught him a deep answer— when she loved
Another ; even now she loved another,
And on the summit of that hill she stood
Looking afar if yet her lover's steed
Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew,
III
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
There w^as an ancient mansion, and before
Its walls there was a steed caparisonM :
Within an antique Oratory stood
The Boy of whom I spake ; — he was alone,
And pale, and pacing to and fro : anon
He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced
Words which I could not guess of; then he leaned
His bow'd head on his hands, and shook as 'twere
With a convulsion — then arose again.
And v/ith his teeth and quivering hands did tear
What he had written, but he shed no tears.
And he did calm himself, and fix his brow
Into a kind of quiet : as he paused.
The Lady of his love re-enter'd there ;
She was serene and smiling then, and yet
She knew she was by him beloved, — she knew.
For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart
Was darkened with her shadow, and she saw
That he was wretched, but she saw not all.
He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp
He took her hand ; a moment o'er his face
A tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced, and then it faded, as it came
He dropp'd the hand he held, and with slow steps
Retired, but not as bidding her adieu,
For they did part with mutual smiles ; he passed
From out the massy gate of that old Hall,
And mounting on his steed he went his way
And ne'er repassed that hoary threshold more.
IV
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The Boy was sprung to manhood : in the wilds
Of fiery climes he made himself a home,
And his Soul drank their sunbeams : he was girt
With strange and dusky aspects ; he was not
Himself like what he had been; on the sea
And on the shore he was a wanderer
There was a mass of m.any images
Crowded like waves upon me, but he was
A part of all : and in the last he lay
Reposing from the noontide sultriness,
Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade
Of ruin'd walls that had survived the names
Of those who rear'd them ; by his sleeping side
Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds
Were fastened near a fountain ; and a man
Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while,
While many of his tribe slumber'd around,
And they were canopied by the bkie sky,
So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful,
That God alone was to be seen in Heaven.
V
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The Lady of his love was wed wit]i One
Who did not love her better : —in her home
A thousand leagues from his, — her native home,
She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy,
Daughters and sons of Beauty, — but behold!
Upon her face there was the tint of grief,
The settled shadow of an inward strife,
And an unquiet drooping of the eye
As if its lid were charged with unshed tears.
What could her grief be ? —she had all she loved,
And he who had so loved her was not there
To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish,
Or ill repressed affliction, her pure thoughts.
What could her grief be ? — She had loved him not.
Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved.
Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd
Upon her mind— a spectre of the past.
VI
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The Wanderer was returned. — I saw him stand
Before an Altar— with a gentle bride ;
Her face was fair, but v.as not that which made
The Starlight of his Boyhood ; as he stood
Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came
The selfsame aspect, and the quivering shock
That in the antique Oratory shook
His bosom in its solitude ; and then —
As in that hour — a moment o'er his face
The tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced, —and then it faded as it came,
And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke
The fitting vows, but heard not his own words,
And all things reeFd around him ; he could see
Not that which was, nor that which should have been.
But the old mansion, and the accustomed hall,
And the remembered chambers, and the place,
The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade,
All things pertaining to that place and hour,
And her who was his destiny, came back
And thrust themselves between him and the light
What business had they there at such a time?
VII
A change came o^er the spirit of my dream.
The lady of his love ; — Oh! she was changed
As by the sickness of the soul ; her mind
Had wander'd from its dwelling, and her eyes
They had not their own lustre, but the look
Which is not of the earth ; she was become
The queen of a fantastic realm ; her thoughts
Were combinations of disjointed things ;
And forms impalpable and unperceived
Of others' sight familiar were to hers.
And this the world calls phrensy, but the wise
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance
Of melancholy is a fearful gift
What is it but the telescope of truth ?
Which strips the distance of its phantasies.
And brings life near in utter nakedness,
Making the cold reality too real!
VIII
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The Wanderer was alone as heretofore,
The beings which surrounded him were gone.
Or were at war with him ; he was a mark
For blight and desolation, compass'd round
With Hatred and Contention ; Pain was mix'd
In all which was served up to him, until
Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,
He fed on poisons, and they had no power,
But were a kind of nutriment, he lived
Through that which had been death to many men.
And made him friends of mountains : with the stars
And the quick Spirit of the Universe
He held his dialogues ; and they did teach
To hhn the magic of their mysteries ;
To him the book of Night was open'd wide
And voices from the deep abyss revealed
A marvel and a secret — Be it so.
IX
My dream was past ; it had no future change.
It was of a strange order, that the doom
Of these two creatures should be thus traced out
Ahnost like a reality— the one
To end in madness — both in misery.
Lord Byron.
Our life is twofold
Sleep hath its own world,
A boundary between the things misnamed
Death and existence : Sleep hath its own world,
And a wide realm of wild reality.
And dreams in their development have breath.
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy;
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,
They take a v/eight from off our waking toils,
They do divide our being ; they become
A portion of ourselves as of our time,
And look like heralds of eternity
They pass like spirits of the past, — they speak
Like sibyls of the future ; they have power
The tyranny of pleasure and of pain ;
They make us what we were not — what they will
And shake us with the vision that's gone by,
The dread of vanished shadows — Are they so ?
Is not the past all shadow? What are they?
Creations of the mind? — The mind can make
Substance, and people planets of its own
With beings brighter than have been, and give
A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.
I would recall a vision which I dream'd
Perchance in sleep— for in itself a thought,
A slumbering thought, is capable of years,'
And curdles a long life into one hour.
II
I saw two beings in the hues of youth
Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill.
Green and of mild declivity, the last
As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such,
Save that there was no sea to lave its base.
But a most living landscape, and the wave
Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of
Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke
Arising from such rustic roofs ; — the hill
Was crowned with a peculiar diadem
Of trees, in circular array, so fix'd,
Not by the sport of nature, but of man
These two, a maiden and a youth, were there
Gazing — the one on all that was beneath
Fair as herself— but the boy gazed on her;
And both were young, and one was beautiful :
And both were young — yet not alike in youth.
As the sweet moon on the horizon^s verge,
The maid was on the eve of womanhood
The boy had fewer summers, but his heart
Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye
There was but one beloved face on earth,
And that was shining on him ; he had look'd
Upon it till it could not pass away
He had no breath, no being, but in hers ;
She was his voice ; he did not speak to her,
But trembled on her words ; she was his sight,
For his eye followed hers, and saw with hers,
Which color'd all his objects : — he had ceased
To live within himself; she was his life.
The ocean to the river of his thoughts,
Which terminated all : upon a tone.
A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow.
And his cheek change tempestuously — his heart
Unknowing of its cause of agony.
But she in these fond feelings had no share
Her sighs were not for him ; to her he was
Even as a brother — but no more ; Hwas much
For brotherless she was, save in the name
Her infant friendship had bestow'd on him
Herself the solitary scion left
Of a time-honor'd race. — It was a name
Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not—and why?
Time taught him a deep answer— when she loved
Another ; even now she loved another,
And on the summit of that hill she stood
Looking afar if yet her lover's steed
Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew,
III
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
There w^as an ancient mansion, and before
Its walls there was a steed caparisonM :
Within an antique Oratory stood
The Boy of whom I spake ; — he was alone,
And pale, and pacing to and fro : anon
He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced
Words which I could not guess of; then he leaned
His bow'd head on his hands, and shook as 'twere
With a convulsion — then arose again.
And v/ith his teeth and quivering hands did tear
What he had written, but he shed no tears.
And he did calm himself, and fix his brow
Into a kind of quiet : as he paused.
The Lady of his love re-enter'd there ;
She was serene and smiling then, and yet
She knew she was by him beloved, — she knew.
For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart
Was darkened with her shadow, and she saw
That he was wretched, but she saw not all.
He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp
He took her hand ; a moment o'er his face
A tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced, and then it faded, as it came
He dropp'd the hand he held, and with slow steps
Retired, but not as bidding her adieu,
For they did part with mutual smiles ; he passed
From out the massy gate of that old Hall,
And mounting on his steed he went his way
And ne'er repassed that hoary threshold more.
IV
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The Boy was sprung to manhood : in the wilds
Of fiery climes he made himself a home,
And his Soul drank their sunbeams : he was girt
With strange and dusky aspects ; he was not
Himself like what he had been; on the sea
And on the shore he was a wanderer
There was a mass of m.any images
Crowded like waves upon me, but he was
A part of all : and in the last he lay
Reposing from the noontide sultriness,
Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade
Of ruin'd walls that had survived the names
Of those who rear'd them ; by his sleeping side
Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds
Were fastened near a fountain ; and a man
Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while,
While many of his tribe slumber'd around,
And they were canopied by the bkie sky,
So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful,
That God alone was to be seen in Heaven.
V
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The Lady of his love was wed wit]i One
Who did not love her better : —in her home
A thousand leagues from his, — her native home,
She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy,
Daughters and sons of Beauty, — but behold!
Upon her face there was the tint of grief,
The settled shadow of an inward strife,
And an unquiet drooping of the eye
As if its lid were charged with unshed tears.
What could her grief be ? —she had all she loved,
And he who had so loved her was not there
To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish,
Or ill repressed affliction, her pure thoughts.
What could her grief be ? — She had loved him not.
Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved.
Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd
Upon her mind— a spectre of the past.
VI
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The Wanderer was returned. — I saw him stand
Before an Altar— with a gentle bride ;
Her face was fair, but v.as not that which made
The Starlight of his Boyhood ; as he stood
Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came
The selfsame aspect, and the quivering shock
That in the antique Oratory shook
His bosom in its solitude ; and then —
As in that hour — a moment o'er his face
The tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced, —and then it faded as it came,
And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke
The fitting vows, but heard not his own words,
And all things reeFd around him ; he could see
Not that which was, nor that which should have been.
But the old mansion, and the accustomed hall,
And the remembered chambers, and the place,
The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade,
All things pertaining to that place and hour,
And her who was his destiny, came back
And thrust themselves between him and the light
What business had they there at such a time?
VII
A change came o^er the spirit of my dream.
The lady of his love ; — Oh! she was changed
As by the sickness of the soul ; her mind
Had wander'd from its dwelling, and her eyes
They had not their own lustre, but the look
Which is not of the earth ; she was become
The queen of a fantastic realm ; her thoughts
Were combinations of disjointed things ;
And forms impalpable and unperceived
Of others' sight familiar were to hers.
And this the world calls phrensy, but the wise
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance
Of melancholy is a fearful gift
What is it but the telescope of truth ?
Which strips the distance of its phantasies.
And brings life near in utter nakedness,
Making the cold reality too real!
VIII
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The Wanderer was alone as heretofore,
The beings which surrounded him were gone.
Or were at war with him ; he was a mark
For blight and desolation, compass'd round
With Hatred and Contention ; Pain was mix'd
In all which was served up to him, until
Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,
He fed on poisons, and they had no power,
But were a kind of nutriment, he lived
Through that which had been death to many men.
And made him friends of mountains : with the stars
And the quick Spirit of the Universe
He held his dialogues ; and they did teach
To hhn the magic of their mysteries ;
To him the book of Night was open'd wide
And voices from the deep abyss revealed
A marvel and a secret — Be it so.
IX
My dream was past ; it had no future change.
It was of a strange order, that the doom
Of these two creatures should be thus traced out
Ahnost like a reality— the one
To end in madness — both in misery.
Lord Byron.
True Or False
So you think you love me, do you?
Well, it may be so ;
But there are many ways of loving
I have learnt to know.
Many ways, and but one true way,
Which is very rare ;
And the counterfeits look brightest,
Though they will not wear.
Yet they ring, almost, quite truly.
Last (with care) for long ;
But in time must break, may shiver
At a touch of wrong :
Having seen what looked most real
Crumble into dust ;
Now I chose that test and trial
Should precede my trust.
I have seen a love demanding
Time and hope and tears,
Chaining all the past, exacting
Bonds from future years ;
Mind and heart, and joy and sorrow,
Claiming as its fee :
That was Love of Self, and never,
Never Love of me!
I have seen a love forgetting
All above, beyond,
Linking every dream and fancy
In a sweeter bond ;
Counting every hour worthless,
Which was cold or free : —
That, perhaps, was— Love of Pleasure,
But not Love of me !
I have seen a love whose patience
Never turned aside.
Full of tender, fond devices ;
Constant, even when tried ;
Smallest boons were held as victories,
Drops that swelled the sea :
That I think vv'as— Love of Power,
But not Love of me!
I have seen a love disdaining
Ease and pride and fame,
Burning even its own white pinions
Just to feed its flame :
Reigning thus, supreme, triumphant,
By the souPs decree ;
That was— Love of Love, I fancy,
But not Love of me !
I have heard — or dreamt, it may be -
What Love is when true :
How to test and how to try it,
Is the gift of few :
These few say (or did I dream it ?)
That true Love abides
In these very things, but always
Has a soul besides.
Lives among the false loves, knowing
Just their peace and strife
Bears the self-same look, but always
Has an inner life.
Only a true heart can find it,
True as it is true,
Only eyes as clear and tender
Look it through and through.
If it dies, it will not perish
By Time's slow decay.
True Love only grows (they tell me)
Stronger, day by day :
Pain— has been its friend and comrade ;
Fate — it can defy ;
Only by its own sword, sometimes
Love can choose to die.
And its grave shall be more noble
And more sacred still,
Than a throne, where one less worthy
Reigns and rules at will.
Tell me then, do you dare oiTer
This true Love to me ? . . .
Neither you nor I can answer
We will —wait and see !
Adelaide Anne Procter
Well, it may be so ;
But there are many ways of loving
I have learnt to know.
Many ways, and but one true way,
Which is very rare ;
And the counterfeits look brightest,
Though they will not wear.
Yet they ring, almost, quite truly.
Last (with care) for long ;
But in time must break, may shiver
At a touch of wrong :
Having seen what looked most real
Crumble into dust ;
Now I chose that test and trial
Should precede my trust.
I have seen a love demanding
Time and hope and tears,
Chaining all the past, exacting
Bonds from future years ;
Mind and heart, and joy and sorrow,
Claiming as its fee :
That was Love of Self, and never,
Never Love of me!
I have seen a love forgetting
All above, beyond,
Linking every dream and fancy
In a sweeter bond ;
Counting every hour worthless,
Which was cold or free : —
That, perhaps, was— Love of Pleasure,
But not Love of me !
I have seen a love whose patience
Never turned aside.
Full of tender, fond devices ;
Constant, even when tried ;
Smallest boons were held as victories,
Drops that swelled the sea :
That I think vv'as— Love of Power,
But not Love of me!
I have seen a love disdaining
Ease and pride and fame,
Burning even its own white pinions
Just to feed its flame :
Reigning thus, supreme, triumphant,
By the souPs decree ;
That was— Love of Love, I fancy,
But not Love of me !
I have heard — or dreamt, it may be -
What Love is when true :
How to test and how to try it,
Is the gift of few :
These few say (or did I dream it ?)
That true Love abides
In these very things, but always
Has a soul besides.
Lives among the false loves, knowing
Just their peace and strife
Bears the self-same look, but always
Has an inner life.
Only a true heart can find it,
True as it is true,
Only eyes as clear and tender
Look it through and through.
If it dies, it will not perish
By Time's slow decay.
True Love only grows (they tell me)
Stronger, day by day :
Pain— has been its friend and comrade ;
Fate — it can defy ;
Only by its own sword, sometimes
Love can choose to die.
And its grave shall be more noble
And more sacred still,
Than a throne, where one less worthy
Reigns and rules at will.
Tell me then, do you dare oiTer
This true Love to me ? . . .
Neither you nor I can answer
We will —wait and see !
Adelaide Anne Procter
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