I love the night who like a mother throws Her arms round hearts that throbbed and limbs that strove, As kind as Death, that puts an end to woes And all the enervating dreams of Love. Because my soul is sick of fancies wove Of fervid ecstacies and crimson glows, Because the taste of cinnamon and clove Palls on my palate-let no man suppose My soul is sick. W. COSMO MONKHOUSE. [KYRIELLE.] LARK in the mesh of the tangled vine, A little pain, a little pleasure, Where is the time for hope or doubt Golden morning and purple night, All things must end that have begun. Ending waits on the brief beginning; Weary waiting and weary striving, Speedily fades the morning glitter; Toil and pain and the evening rest; JOHN PAYNE. SPRING SADNESS.. [VIRELAI.] 3S I sat sorrowing A Love came and bade me sing A joyous song and meet; For see (said he) each thing. Is merry for the Spring, And every bird doth greet The break of blossoming, That all the woodlands ring Unto the young hours' feet. Wherefore put off defeat, And rouse thee to repeat The chime of merles that go, With flutings shrill and sweet, In every green retreat, The tune of streams that flow And mark the fair hours' beat, With running ripples fleet And breezes soft and low. For who should have, I trow, And pleasance of the May,- And birth of Springtide gay, When in woodwalk and row As he to whom alway God giveth day by day To set to roundelay Life's sad and sunny hours, To weave into a lay Life's golden years and gray, Its sweet and bitter flowers,— To sweep, with hands that stray In many a devious way, Its harp of sun and showers? Nor in this life of ours, Whereon the sky oft lowers, Is any lovelier thing Than in the wild wood bowers The cloud of green that towers, The vivid vernal hours Among the painted flowers. And all the pomp of Spring. U |