Nuptial Night

Hush! and again the chatter of the starling
        Athwart the lawn!
Lean your head close and closer. O my darling!--
        It is the dawn.
Dawn in the dusk of her dream,
        Dream in the hush of her bosom, unclose!
Bathed in the eye-bright beam,
        Blush to her cheek, be a blossom, a rose!

Go, nuptial night! the floor of Ocean tressing
        With moon and star;
With benediction go and breathe thy blessing
        On coasts afar.

Hark! the theorbos thrum
        O'er the arch'd wave that in white smother booms
"Mother of Mystery, come!
        Fain for thee wait other brides, other grooms!"

Go, nuptial night, my breast of hers bereaving!
        Yet, O, tread soft!
Grow day, blithe day, the mountain shoulder heaving
        More gold aloft!
Gold, rose, bird of the dawn,
        All to her balcony gather unseen--
Thrill through the curtain drawn,
        Bless her, bedeck her, and bathe her, my Queen!

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch, born on November 21, 1863, and died on May 12, 1944, was a Cornish writer, who published under the pen name Q. His legacy includes a vast body of critical and anthological work, most notably 'The Oxford Book of English Verse 1250–1900'. Quiller-Couch was knighted in 1910 and also served as a professor of English at the University of Cambridge. His works have influenced many, including writers like Virginia Woolf.

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch

The Marine - Folk Song

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch, Simple Poetry

As I Laye A-Dreamynge. L'Envoi.

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch, Simple Poetry

Written Upon Love's Frontier-Post. (From 'Troy Town'.)

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch, Simple Poetry

Christmas Eve

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch, Simple Poetry

English

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Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch

The Assignation. [14]

Hear I the creaking gate unclose?
The gleaming latch uplifted?
No - 'twas the wind that, whirring, rose,
Amidst the poplars drifted!
Adorn thyself, thou green leaf-bowering roof,
Destined the bright one's presence to receive,
For her, a shadowy palace-hall aloof
With holy night, thy boughs familiar weave.
And ye sweet flatteries of the delicate air,
Awake and sport her rosy cheek around,
When their light weight the tender feet shall bear,
When beauty comes to passion's trysting-ground.

Hush! what amidst the copses crept -
So swiftly by me now?
No-'twas the startled bird that swept
The light leaves of the bough!
Day, quench thy torch! come, ghostlike, from on high,
With thy loved silence, come, thou haunting Eve,
Broaden below thy web of purple ...

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A Nuptial Song Or Epithalamy On Sir Clipseby Crew And His Lady.

What's that we see from far? the spring of day
Bloom'd from the east, or fair enjewell'd May
Blown out of April, or some new
Star filled with glory to our view,
Reaching at heaven,
To add a nobler planet to the seven?
Say, or do we not descry
Some goddess in a cloud of tiffany
To move, or rather the
Emergent Venus from the sea?

'Tis she! 'tis she! or else some more divine
Enlightened substance; mark how from the shrine
Of holy saints she paces on,
Treading upon vermilion
And amber: spic-
ing the chaft air with fumes of Paradise.
Then come on, come on and yield
A savour like unto a blessed field
When the bedabbled morn
Washes the golden ears of corn.

See where she comes; and smell how all the street
Breathes vineyards and po...

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Wedding-Night. (Moods Of Love.)

At night, with shaded eyes, the summer moon
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    At the dark earth, far-set in dim expanses,
And, welcomer than blazoned gold of noon,
Down through the air her steady lights are strewn.
    The breezy forests sigh in moonlit trances,
    And the full-hearted poet, waking, fancies
The smiling hills will break in laughter soon.

Oh thus, thou gentle Nature, dost thou shine
    On me to-night. My very limbs would melt,
Like rugged earth beneath yon ray divine,
    Into faint semblance of what they have felt:
Thine eye doth color me, O wife, O mine,
With peace that in thy spirit long hath dwelt!

George Parsons Lathrop

Translations. - The Tryst. (From Schiller.)

That was the sound of the wicket!
That was the latch as it rose!
    No--the wind that through the thicket
    Of the poplars whirring goes.

Put on thy beauty, foliage-vaulted roof,
Her to receive: with silent welcome grace her;
Ye branches build a shadowy room, eye-proof,
With lovely night and stillness to embrace her,
Ye airs caressing, wake, nor keep aloof,
In sport and gambol turning still to face her,
As, with its load of beauty, lightly borne,
Glides in the fairy foot, and dawns my morn.

What is that rustling the hedges?
She, with her hurrying pace?
    No, a bird among the sedges,
    Startled from its hiding-place!

Quench thy sunk torch, O Day! Steal out, appear,
Dim, ghostly Night, with dumbness us entrancing!
Spread thy ro...

George MacDonald

To A Friend Who Sent Me A Box Of Violets

Nay, more than violets
These thoughts of thine, friend!
Rather thy reedy brook--
Taw's tributary--
At midnight murmuring,
Descried them, the delicate
Dark-eyed goddesses,
There by his cressy bed
Dissolved and dreaming
Dreams that distilled into dew
All the purple of night,
All the shine of a planet.

Whereat he whispered;
And they arising--

Of day's forget-me-nots
The duskier sisters--
Descended, relinquished
The orchard, the trout-pool,
Torridge and Tamar,
The Druid circles,
Sheepfolds of Dartmoor,
Granite and sandstone;
By Roughtor, Dozmare,
Down the vale of the Fowey
Moving in silence,
Brushing the nightshade
By bridges cyclopean,
By Trevenna, Treverbyn,
Lawharne and Largin,
By Glyn...

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch