The lark now leaves his wat'ry nest, And climbing, shakes his dewy wings, He takes your window for the east, And to implore your light, he sings; Awake, awake, the morn will never rise Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.
The merchant bows unto the seaman's star, The ploughman from the sun his season takes; But still the lover wonders what they are, Who look for day before his mistress wakes. Awake, awake, break through your veils of lawn, Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawn. --_William D'Avenant_
Night, and the down by the sea, And the veil of rain on the down; And she came through the mist and the rain to me From the safe warm lights of the town.
The rain shone in her hair, And her face gleam'd in the rain; And only the night and the rain were there As she came to me out of the rain. --_Arthur Symons_
Down by the sally gardens my love and I did meet; She pass'd the sally gardens with little snow-white feet. She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree; But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.
In a field by the river my love and I did stand, And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand. She bade me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs; But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears. --_William Butler Yeats_
She's somewhere in the sunlight strong, Her tears are in the falling rain, She calls me in the wind's soft song, And with the flowers she comes again.
Yon bird is but her messenger, The moon is but her silver car. Yea! sun and moon are sent by her, And every wistful waiting star. --_Richard Le Gallienne_
When Delia on the plain appears Aw'd by a thousand tender fears, I would approach, but dare not move: Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
Whene'er she speaks, my ravish'd ear No other voice but hers can hear, No other wit but hers approve: Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
If she some other youth commend, Though I was once his fondest friend, His instant enemy I prove: Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
When she is absent, I no more Delight in all that pleas'd before, The clearest spring, or shadiest grove: Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
When, fond of power, of beauty vain, Her nets she spread for every swain, I strove to hate, but vainly strove: Tell me, my heart, if this be love? --_George Lyttleton_