Puslapio vaizdai
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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 bee that drowns in the flower-cup's wine,
A fly in the sunshine,—such is man.
All things must end, as all began.

A little pain, a little pleasure,
A little heaping up of treasure,
Then no more gazing upon the sun.
All things must end that have begun

Where is the time for hope or doubt
A puff of the wind, and life is out.
A turn of the wheel, and rest is won.
All things must end that have begun.

Golden morning and purple night,
Life that fails with the failing light!
Death is the only deathless one.

All things must end that have begun.

Ending waits on the brief beginning;
Is the prize worth the stress of winning?
E'en in the dawning the day is done.
All things must end that have begun.

Weary waiting and weary striving,
Glad outsetting and sad arriving;
What is it worth when the goal is won?
All things must end that have begun.

Speedily fades the morning glitter;
Love grows irksome and wine grows bitter.
Two are parted from what was one.
All things must end that have begun.

Toil and pain and the evening rest;
Joy is weary and sleep is best;
Fair and softly the day is done.
All things must end that have begun.

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,
Such joyance in the glow

And pleasance of the May,-
In all sweet bells that blow,
In death of Winter's woe

And birth of Springtide gay,

When in woodwalk and row
Hand-linked the lovers go,—

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 blithe birds welcoming

The vivid vernal hours

Among the painted flowers.

And all the pomp of Spring.

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