The pleasant furniture of spring was set in all the fields, And gay and wholesome were the herbs and flowers; Our simple cloth of love was spread with all that nature yields, And frugal only were the passing hours.
Oh, we have been a-maying, dear, we’ve left the world behind, We’ve sung and danced and gossiped as we strayed; And when within our little but your fingers draw the blind, We’ll loiter by the fire that love has made.
Through the round window above, the deep palpable blue, The wan bright moon, and the sweet stinging breath of the sea; And below, in the shadows, thine eyes like stars, And Love brooding low, and the warm white glory of thee.
Oh, soft was the song in my soul, and soft beyond thought were thy lips, And thou wert mine own, and Eden reconquered was mine And the way that I go is the way of thy feet, and the breath that I breathe, It hath being from thee and life from the life that is thine!
Your voice I knew, its cadences and thrill; It stilled the tumult and the overthrow When Athens trembled to the people’s will; I knew it--‘twas a thousand years ago.
I see the fountains, and the gardens where You sang the fury from the Satrap’s brow; I feel the quiver in the raptured air, I heard it in the Athenian grove--I hear you now.
Eyes like the sea, look up, the beacons brighten, Home comes the sailor, home across the tide! Back drifts the cloud, behold the heavens whiten, The port of Love is open, he anchors at thy side.
UNDER THE CLIFF The sands and the sea, and the white gulls fleeting, The mist on the island, the cloud on the hill; The song in my heart, and the old hope beating Its life ‘gainst the bars of thy will.
Here in the highway without thy garden wall, Here in the babel and the glare, Sick for thy haven, O Sweet, to thee I call: Open thy gate unto my prayer-- Open thy gate.
Cool is thy garden-plot, pleasant thy shade, All things commend thee in thy place; Dwelling on thy perfectness, O Sweet, I am afraid, But, fearing, long to look upon thy face-- Open thy gate.
Over the ample globe, searching for thee, Thee and thy garden have I come; Ended my questing: no more, no more for me, O Sweet, the pilgrim’s sandals, call me home-- Open thy gate.
Summer is come; the corn is in the ear, The haze is swimming where the beeches stand; Summer is come, though winter months be here-- My love is summer passing through the land.