They'll know not if it's fire, or dew, Or out of earth, or in the height, Out of the garden, higher, higher. . . And the weak passionless hearts will burn And faint in that amazing glow, Until the darkness close above; And they will know-poor fools, they'll know! One moment, what it is to love. Rupert Brooke [1887-1915] BALLAD THE roses in my garden Were white in the noonday sun, All clad in golden armor, To weep, to sing, and spin. When fell the dewy twilight I heard the wicket grate, All clad in golden armor, He did not lift his vizor, And yet his face I knew. Dirge And when he left my garden The roses in my garden Were white in the noonday sun; But they were dyed with crimson Before the day was done. 1139 Maurice Baring [1874-1916] "THE LITTLE ROSE IS DUST, MY DEAR" THE little rose is dust, my dear; The elfin wind is gone That sang a song of silver words And what is left to hope, my dear, The rose, the little wind and you Have gone so far away. Grace Hazard Conkling [18 DIRGE NEVER the nightingale, Oh, my dear, Never again the lark Thou wilt hear; Though dusk and the morning still Tap at thy window-sill, Though ever love call and call Thou wilt not hear at all, My dear, my dear. Adelaide Crapsey [1878-1914] THE ROSARY THE hours I spent with thee, dear heart, Each hour a pearl, each pearl a prayer, Oh memories that bless-and burn! I kiss each bead, and strive at last to learn Sweetheart, To kiss the cross. Robert Cameron Rogers [1862-1912] LOVE'S FULFILMENT "MY TRUE-LOVE HATH MY HEART” My true-love hath my heart, and I have his, There never was a better bargain driven: My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides: He loves my heart, for once it was his own, I cherish his, because in me it bides. His heart his wound received from my sight; So still me thought in me his heart did smart:/ SONG O SWEET delight, O more than human bliss, With her to live that ever loving is! To hear her speak whose words are so well placed That she by them, as they in her are graced: Such love as this the Golden Times did know, Which till their eyes ache, let iron men envy! THE GOOD-MORROW I WONDER, by my troth, what thou and I Or snored we in the Seven Sleepers' den? If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee. And now good-morrow to our waking souls, My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears, If our two loves be one, or thou and I Love just alike in all, none of these loves can die. John Donne [1573-1631] "THERE'S GOWD IN THE BREAST” THERE'S gowd in the breast of the primrose pale, An' siller in every blossom; There's riches galore in the breeze of the vale, And health in the wild wood's bosom. Then come, my love, at the hour of joy, When warbling birds sing o'er us; Sweet nature for us has no alloy, And the world is all before us. The courtier joys in bustle and power, The miser in hoards of treasured ore, The proud in their pomp surrounding: |