To Mollie

O Mollie, I would I possessed such a heart;
It enchants me so gentle and true;
I would I possessed all its magical art,
Then, Mollie, I would enchant you.

Those dear, rosy lips tho' I never caressed them(?)
Are as sweet as the wild honey-dew;
Your cheeks all the angels in Heaven have blessed them,
But not one is as lovely as you.

Then give me that heart, O that innocent heart!
For mine own is cold and perdu;
It enchants me, but give me its magical art,
Then, Mollie, I will enchant you.

Hanford Lennox Gordon

No biography available

Hanford Lennox Gordon

Winona And Ta-Te-Psin.

Hanford Lennox Gordon, Simple Poetry

Christmas Eve

Hanford Lennox Gordon, Simple Poetry

Minnetonka[BY]

Hanford Lennox Gordon, Simple Poetry

Byron And The Angel

Hanford Lennox Gordon, Simple Poetry

English

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My Mollie, O!

    'Twas in the summer's sweet perfume,
        When roses bloomed and holly, O,
    That in the brightness of her bloom,
        I first did meet my Mollie, O.

    Although she said for lives to love
        Was nothing but pure folly, O,
    My heart was lit with light above,
        And I true loved my Mollie, O.

    O, swift and fast the days did flee
        And seemed most bright and jolly, O,
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        My fair and lovely Mollie, O.

    Now I doth sit through all the day
        And nurse my melancholy, O,
    For from me she has turned away,
        O, false and fickle Mollie, O!

Freeman Edwin Miller

Bessy Bell.

When life looks drear and lonely, love,
    And pleasant fancies flee,
Then will the Muses only, love,
    Bestow a thought on me!
Mine is a harp which Pleasure, love,
    To waken strives in vain;
To Joy's entrancing measure, love,
    It ne'er can thrill again!--
            Why mock me, Bessy Bell?

Oh, do not ask me ever, love,
    For rapture-woven rhymes;
For vain is each endeavor, love,
    To sound Mirth's play-bell chimes!
Yet still believe me, dearest love,
    Though sad my song may be,
This heart still dotes sincerest, love,
    And grateful turns to thee--
            My once fond Bessy Bell!

Those eyes still rest upon me, love!
    I feel their magic spell!
With that same look you won me, love,
    Fair, gentle...

George Pope Morris

Dolly Varden

Dear Dolly! who does not recall
The thrilling page that pictured all
Those charms that held our sense in thrall
Just as the artist caught her,
As down that English lane she tripped,
In bowered chintz, hat sideways tipped,
Trim-bodiced, bright-eyed, roguish-lipped,
The locksmiths pretty daughter?

Sweet fragment of the Masters art!
O simple faith! O rustic heart!
O maid that hath no counterpart
In lifes dry, dog-eared pages!
Where shall we find thy like? Ah, stay!
Methinks I saw her yesterday
In chintz that flowered, as one might say,
Perennial for ages.

Her fathers modest cot was stone,
Five stories high; in style and tone
Composite, and, I frankly own,
Within its walls revealing
Some certain novel, strange ideas:
A Goth...

Bret Harte

A Woman's Charms

My purse is yours, Sweet Heart, for I
Can count no coins with you close by;
I scorn like sailors them, when they
Have drawn on shore their deep-sea pay;
Only my thoughts I value now,
Which, like the simple glowworms, throw
Their beams to greet thee bravely, Love,
Their glorious light in Heaven above.
Since I have felt thy waves of light,
Beating against my soul, the sight
Of gems from Afric's continent
Move me to no great wonderment.
Since I, Sweet Heart, have known thine hair,
The fur of ermine, sable, bear,
Or silver fox, for me can keep
No more to praise than common sheep.
Though ten Isaiahs' souls were mine,
They could not sing such charms as thine.
Two little hands that show with pride,
Two timid, little feet that hide;
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William Henry Davies

To Mistress Amy Potter.

Ay me! I love; give him your hand to kiss
Who both your wooer and your poet is.
Nature has precompos'd us both to love:
Your part's to grant; my scene must be to move.
Dear, can you like, and liking love your poet?
If you say "Aye," blush-guiltiness will show it.
Mine eyes must woo you, though I sigh the while:
True love is tongueless as a crocodile.
And you may find in love these different parts--
Wooers have tongues of ice, but burning hearts.

Robert Herrick

My Polly.

My Polly's varry bonny,
Her een are black an breet;
They shine under her raven locks,
Like stars i'th' dark o'th' neet.

Her little cheeks are like a peach,
'At th' sun has woo'd an missed;
Her lips like cherries, red an sweet,
Seem moulded to be kissed.

Her breast is like a drift o' snow,
Her little waist's soa thin,
To clasp it wi' a careless arm
Wod ommost be a sin.

Her little hands an tiny feet,
Wod mak yo think shoo'd been
Browt up wi' little fairy fowk
To be a fairy queen.

An when shoo laffs, it saands as if
A little crystal spring,
Wor bubblin up throo silver rocks,
Screened by an angel's wing.

It saands soa sweet, an yet soa low,
One feels it forms a part
Ov what yo love, an yo can hear
It...

John Hartley