Puslapio vaizdai
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I

SUDDEN LIGHT.

HAVE been here before,

But when or how I cannot tell :

I know the grass beyond the door,

The sweet keen smell,

The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.

You have been mine before,—

How long ago I may not know:

But just when at that swallow's soar

Your neck turned so,

Some veil did fall,-I knew it all of yore.

Has this been thus before?

And shall not thus time's eddying flight Still with our lives our love restore

In death's despite,

And day and night yield one delight once more?

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.

MADE another garden, yea,
For my new love :

I left the dead rose where it lay
And set the new above.

Why did the 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 at 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.

H! were I rich and mighty,
With store of gems and gold,
And you, a beggar at my gate,
Lay starving in the cold;

I wonder, could I bear

To leave you pining there?

Or, if I were an angel,
And you an earth-born thing,
Beseeching me to touch you
In rising with my wing;
I wonder should I soar
Aloft, nor heed you more?

Or, dear, if I were only
A maiden cold and sweet,
And you, a humble lover,
Sighed vainly at my feet;
I wonder if my heart

Would know no pain or smart ?

LEWIS MORRIS.

MISCONCEPTIONS.

I.

HIS is a spray the Bird clung to,
Making it blossom with pleasure,
Ere the high tree-top she sprung to,
Fit for her nest and her treasure.

Oh, what a hope beyond measure

Was the poor spray's, which the flying feet hung to,So to be singled out, built in, and sung to!

II.

This is the heart the Queen leant on,

Thrilled in a minute erratic,

Ere the true bosom she bent on,

Meet for love's regal dalmatic,

Oh what a fancy ecstatic

Was the poor heart's, ere the wanderer went on,— Love to be saved for it, proffered to, spent on!

ROBERT BROWNING.

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