Fair roses droop and die In halls of dance and minstrelsy; But who within those walls has met The violet?
Where faintly smiles the sun Through chequered skies on beech groves dun, There hides in vales sequestered yet The violet.
Where I shall lie asleep, Some friend, perhaps, a tear will weep, And if our love knew no regrets, Strew violets.
IN a restless land beside a river Stands a stone enclosure tall, Rich the finder is, and rich the giver Of the key to pierce that wall.
Once within, you drink the clearest pleasures, And your sorrow change for ease; Ancient bards enchant you with their measures, Sweetly sighs the Highland breeze.
Next amid the orange trees and cedars Bearded Homer deigns to roam, Musing tales of marching Argive leaders, And Ulysses welcomed home.
Here where daffodils their crowns are bending On a lawn of English green, Milton gravely sits to tell the ending Of angelic strifes unseen.
Here the almond bloom for ever blushes, And Italian fountains rise; While the wine of dawn their dewdrops flushes, Dante speaks of Paradise.
But beyond where any poet paces, Grows a gnarled grey olive grove, Where the furthest stars have veiled their faces, Weeping for eternal Love.
WHERE are the domes of pure mysterious gold, And myriad angel wings in ordered flight My childish gaze could once at eve behold Before the mountains melted into night?
Where is the island, shy abode of bliss, Which seemed through summer haze to rise and float, The isle which merchant fleets could never kiss, But once stood still for Brendan’s hermit boat?
Where are my paladins with souls of snow, Whose swords were fashioned at no mortal forge, The men who rode where Arthur bade them go To meet the dragon in his dungeon gorge?
O happy, happy dreams, ye were no lies, No true apostle made me put away Such “childish things,” which mirrored to mine eyes Faith, Hope and Love. I call you back to stay.
HE was so courteous to the paynim horde, Men doubted if he served the Lord Or held the faith of Christ. They said he proudly scorned life’s sweetest prize, Who never played with sparkling eyes Or kept an evening tryst.
Their god of love was but Cupidity, Their Lord an idol vanity With mail below his vest: While he, true knight, believed in Christ alone, And though they thought his heart a stone, Made love a hero’s quest.