HAS summer come without the rose, Is the blue changed above thee, O world! or am I blind? Will you change every flower that grows, The skies seem'd true above thee, The rose true on the tree; The bird seem'd true the summer through, Have said, I love thee not? Two or three to carry away. IF SHE BUT KNEW If she but knew that I am weeping That love and sorrow grow with keeping My heart that breaking will adore her, If she might hear me once implore her, If she but knew that it would save me Saying she pitied me, forgave me, Must she forbear? If she were told that I was dying, Could she content herself with sighing? Some little sorrow for a soul's decline. Like the sweet burden of remember'd That gentle sadness should be with thee, dear; And when the gates of sleep are on thee shut, "Within the palaces of slumber keep One little niche wherein sometimes to weep For one who vainly toils till he shall die!" Yet say again, a sweeter thing than this : "His life is wasted by his love for thee." Then, looking o'er the fields of memory, She'll find perchance, o'ergrown with grief But murmur, shell-like, at thy spirit's ear. and bliss, Some flower of recollection, pale and fair, A VAIN WISH I WOULD not, could I, make thy life as Only I would, if such a thing might be, I would not, even then, it should be mute, LOVE'S MUSIC LOVE held a harp between his hands, and, lo! The master hand, upon the harp-strings laid By way of prelude, such a sweet tune play'd' As made the heart with happy tears o'erflow; Still wilder wax'd the tune; until at length The strong strings, strain'd by sudden stress and sharp Of that musician's hand intolerable, The Rose Already my flush'd heart grows faint with bliss; Love, I have long'd for you through all the night. The Wind And I to kiss your petals warm and bright. Laugh round me, Love, and kiss me ; And jarr'd by sweep of unrelenting strength, Nay, have no fear, the Lily will not tell. Sunder'd, and all the broken music fell. Such was Love's music,-lo, the shatter'd harp! THE ROSE AND THE WIND DAWN The Rose WHEN, think you, comes the Wind, The Wind that kisses me and is so kind? Lo, how the Lily sleeps! her sleep is light; MORNING The Rose it is 'Twas dawn when first you came; and now the sun Shines brightly and the dews of dawn are 'Tis well you take me so in your embrace; Would I were like the Lily, pale and Nay, you must wake, Love, from this child white! Will the Wind come? The Beech Perchance for you too soon. If not, how could I live until the noon? Why comes he not at breaking of the day? The Beech Hush, child, and, like the Lily, go to sleep. My buds are blind with leaves, they cannot HOW MY SONG OF HER BEGAN GOD made my lady lovely to behold, Above the painter's dream he set her face, And wrought her body in divinest grace; He touch'd the brown hair with a sense of gold; And in the perfect form He did enfold What was alone as perfect, the sweet heart; Knowledge most rare to her He did impart ; And fill'd with love and worship all her days. And then God thought Him how it would be well To give her music; and to Love He said, "Bring thou some minstrel now that he may tell How fair and sweet a thing My hands have made." Then at Love's call I came, bow'd down my head, And at His will my lyre grew audible. |