These have been my childhood's love, These my maiden visions were; When I meet their gaze above, These will tell me, God is there."
"'Tis done! No more the palsied doubt molests; The crown of glory on my labour rests. Thy clear voice hath my flagging thoughts supplied, My model thou, my teacher, and my bride! Now stand, beloved one, where the soft glow lies, Yet judge not rashly, ere the colour dries. Find every fault, pick every flaw thou canst; I'll not be vexed; true art is thus advanced. So meek is art, that (when it comprehends) It loves the carping of its dearest friends. If my own bride condemns my efforts--let her. A poor daub? Well let some one do it better."
"My love, my lord, my monarch of high art, Forgive a tongue held fast and bound by heart. Not Orpheus, Linus, or great Hermes could Find words to make their rapture understood. No Muse, no Phoebus, hath this work inspired, But Jove himself, with heaven's own splendour fired. I see the nursing fingers of the day, And night as well, upon their offspring play-- The silent glide of moon, that hushed their sleep, (As mother at her infant steals a peep) Anon, with pearly glances half withdrawn, The gentle hesitation of the dawn; I see the sun his golden target raise, And drive in tremulous ranks the woodland haze; Awakened by whose call the flowers arise, With tears of joy and blushes of surprise; From bulb and bush, from leaf and blade, spring up Bell, disk, or star, plume, sceptre, fan, or cup; A thousand forms, a thousand hues of bloom Fill earth and heaven with beauty and perfume. All this, by thine enchantment, liveth here; Oh wondrous power, that chills my pride with fear!"
"Thy praise, sweet critic, makes thee doubly dear. But what of thy fair self--thy form, thy face, The flower of flowers, the gracefulness of grace?"
"I see why thou hast placed me among these; I serve a purpose--'tis to scare the bees. Sweet love hath right to place me anywhere; And yet I mourn, to find myself so fair."
"A maid lament her beauty! Thou hast shown, A thousand times, a wit beyond mine own; Yet is it kind to such a love as mine, To grudge it refuge in a lovely shrine?"
"No shrine, no throne, of earth or heaven above, Can be too fair a dwelling-place for love. But that which makes me grieve, myself to see, Is memory of the bitter loss to thee; That earthly charms--as men such things esteem-- Should tantalize thee, in a weeping dream!"