A Valediction: 961 Moor and pleasance all around thee and beneath thee Looking equal in one snow; While I, who try to reach thee, With the farewell and the hollo, And cannot reach thee so. Alas, I can but teach thee! God be with thee, my beloved,-God be with thee! Can I teach thee, my beloved,-can I teach thee? The counsel would be light, The wisdom, poor of all that could enrich thee; My raising would depress thee, My choice of light would blind thee, Of way-would leave behind thee, Alas, I can but bless thee! May God teach thee, my beloved, may God teach thee! Can I bless thee, my beloved,-can I bless thee? What blessing word can I From mine own tears keep dry? What flowers grow in my field wherewith to dress thee? My good reverts to ill; My calmnesses would move thee, My softnesses would prick thee, My bindings up would break thee, My crownings curse and kill. Alas, I can but love thee! May God bless thee, my beloved,-may God bless thee! Can I love thee, my beloved, can I love thee? And is this like love, to stand With no help in my hand, When strong as death I fain would watch above thee? My love-kiss can deny No tear that falls beneath it; Mine oath of love can swear thee From no ill that comes near thee, And thou diest while I breathe it And I-I can but die! May God love thee, my beloved,-may God love thee! Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861] FAREWELL THOU goest; to what distant place Where'er thou goest, morn will be; The night and gloom I can but take; John Addington Symonds [1840-1893] "I DO NOT LOVE THEE" I Do not love thee!-no! I do not love thee! And yet when thou art absent I am sad; And envy even the bright blue sky above thee, Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad. I do not love thee!-yet, I know not why, Whate'er thou dost seems still well done, to me: And often in my solitude I sigh That those I do love are not more like thee! I do not love thee! yet, when thou art gone, I hate the sound (though those who speak be near) Which breaks the lingering echo of the tone Thy voice of music leaves upon my ear. "O Swallow, Swallow, Flying South" 963 I do not love thee!-yet thy speaking eyes, With their deep, bright, and most expressive blue, Between me and the midnight heaven arise, Oftener than any eyes I ever knew. I know I do not love thee!-yet, alas! Others will scarcely trust my candid heart; And oft I catch them smiling as they pass, Because they see me gazing where thou art. Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton [1808–1870] THE PALM-TREE AND THE PINE BENEATH an Indian palm a girl Her cheek is clear and pale as pearl, Beside a northern pine a boy Is leaning fancy-bound, Cool grows the sick and feverish calm,- The pine-tree dreameth of the palm, As soon shall nature interlace As these young lovers face to face Renew their carly vows! Richard Monckton Milnes (1809-1885] O SWALLOW, Swallow, flying, flying South, O, tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each, That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, And dark and true and tender is the North. O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill, And cheep and twitter twenty million loves. O, were I thou that she might take me in, And lay me on her bosom, and her heart Would rock the snowy cradle till I died! Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love, Delaying as the tender ash delays To clothe herself, when all the woods are green? O, tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown; O, tell her, brief is life but love is long, And brief the sun of summer in the North, And brief the moon of beauty in the South. O Swallow, flying from the golden woods, Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine, And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee. Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892] THE FLOWER'S NAME HERE'S the garden she walked across, Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss Hinders the hinges and makes them wince! She must have reached this shrub ere she turned, As back with that murmur the wicket swung; For she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spurned, To feed and forget it the leaves among. The Flower's Name Down this side of the gravel-walk She went while her robe's edge brushed the box: And here she paused in her gracious talk To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox. Roses, ranged in valiant row, I will never think that she passed you by! She loves you, noble roses, I know; But yonder see where the rock-plants lie! This flower she stopped at, finger on lip, Speech half-asleep, or song half-awake? Roses, if I live and do well, I may bring her, one of these days, To fix you fast with as fine a spell, Fit you each with his Spanish phrase: But do not detain me now; for she lingers There, like sunshine over the ground, And ever I see her soft white fingers Searching after the bud she found. Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not, Twinkling the audacious leaves between, Where I find her not, beauties vanish; Is there no method to tell her in Spanish 965 June's twice June since she breathed it with me? |