So little cause for carollings Of such ecstatic sound Was written on terrestrial things Afar or nigh around, That I could think there trembled through His happy good-night air Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew And I was unaware. --_Thomas Hardy_
Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind, That from the nunnery Of your chaste breast and quiet mind To war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such As you too shall adore; I could not love thee, dear, so much Loved I not honour more! --_Richard Lovelace_
The young moon is white, But the willows are blue: Your small lips are red, But the great clouds are gray: The waves are so many That whisper to you; But my love is only One flight of spray.
The bright drops are many, The dark wave is one: The dark wave subsides, And the bright sea remains! And wherever, O singing Maid, you may run, You are one with the world For all your pains.
Tho' the great skies are dark, And your small feet are white, Tho' your wide eyes are blue And the closed poppies red, Tho' the kisses are many, That colour the night, They are linked like pearls On one golden thread.
Were the gray clouds not made For the red of your mouth; The ages for flight Of the butterfly years; The sweet of the peach For the pale lips of drouth, The sunlight of smiles For the shadow of tears?
Love, Love is the thread That has pierced them with bliss! All their hues are but notes In one world-wide tune: Lips, willows and waves, We are one as we kiss, And your face and the flowers Faint away in the moon. --_Alfred Noyes_
Go, little book, and wish to all Flowers in the garden, meat in the hall, A bin of wine, a spice of wit, A house with lawns enclosing it, A living river by the door, A nightingale in the sycamore. --_Robert Louis Stevenson_
I saw, I saw the lovely child I watch'd her by the way, I learnt her gestures sweet and wild Her loving eyes and gay.
Her name?--I heard not, nay, nor care; Enough it was for me To find her innocently fair And delicately free.
O cease and go ere dreams be done, Nor trace the angel's birth, Nor find the Paradisal one A blossom of the earth!