Were All The World Like You

Were all the world like you, my dear,
    Were all the world like you,
Oh, there'd be darts in all our hearts
    From sunset to the dew.
For life would be Love's jubilee
    Where all were two and two,
And lovers' rhyme the only crime,
    Were all the world like you, my dear,
    Were all the world like you.

Were all the world like you, my dear,
    Were all the world like you,
There'd be no pain nor clouds nor rain,
    No kisses overdue;
But sweetest sighs and pleading eyes,
    Where Cupid's arrow flew,
And lovers' rhyme the only crime,
    Were all the world like you, my dear,
    Were all the world like you.

Arthur Macy

Arthur Macy was an American poet known for his contributions during the 19th century. Born on June 6, 1842, he became widely recognized for his poignant and evocative verses, which often reflected themes of nature and human emotion. His poetry gained considerable respect and admiration during his lifetime. He passed away on June 1, 1904.

Arthur Macy

The Worm Will Turn

Arthur Macy, Simple Poetry

A Ballade Of Montaigne

Arthur Macy, Simple Poetry

Valentines From A Conchologist

Arthur Macy, Simple Poetry

In Remembrance

Arthur Macy, Simple Poetry

English

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Here And There

Sweet Phyllis went a-rambling here and there,
            Here and there.
Her eyes were blue and golden was her hair.
    She said, "Oh, life is strange;
    I'm sure I need a change;
'Tis sad for one to ramble here and there,
            Here and there."

Young Strephon went a-rambling here and there,
            Here and there.
He sighed, "It needs but two to make a pair.
    If I should meet a maid
    Not in the least afraid,
How happy we'd go rambling here and there,
            Here and there."

As youth and maid went rambling here and there,
            Here and there,
They met, and loved at sight, for both were fair;
    And neither youth nor maid
    Was in the least afraid,
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Arthur Macy

Thou Art To Me

    Thou art to me
As are soft breezes to a summer sea;
    As stars unto the night;
    Or when the day is born,
    As sunrise to the morn;
As peace unto the fading of the light.

    Thou art to me
As one sweet flower upon a barren lea;
    As rest to toiling hands;
As one clear spring amid the desert sands;
    As smiles to maidens' lips;
As hope to friends that wait for absent ships;
    As happiness to youth;
    As purity to truth;
    As sweetest dreams to sleep;
As balm to wounded hearts that weep.
All, all that I would have thee be
    Thou art to me.

Arthur Macy

Love

[TRIO]


Oh, love hits all humanity, humanity, my dear;
But after all it's vanity, a vanity, I fear;
And sometimes 'tis insanity, insanity, so queer;
    Humanity, yes, a vanity, yes, insanity so queer.
And love is often curious, so curious to see,
And oftentimes is spurious, so spurious, ah, me!
And surely 'tis injurious, injurious when free,
    So curious, yes, and spurious, yes, injurious when free.

Oh, love brings much anxiety, anxiety and grief,
But seasoned with propriety, propriety, relief,
It's mixed with joy and piety, but piety is brief;
    Anxiety, yes, propriety, yes, but piety is brief.
Oh, young love's all timidity, timidity, I'm told,
Gains courage with rapidity, rapidity, so bold,
With traces of acidity, acidity, when old;
   ...

Arthur Macy

The Jonquil Maid

A little Maid sat in a Jonquil Tree,
            Singing alone,
            In a low love-tone,
And the wind swept by with a wistful moan;
        For he longed to stay
        With the Maid all day;
            But he knew
            As he blew
            It was true
            That the dew
        Would never, never dry
        If the wind should die;
So he hurried away where the rosebuds grew.
And while to the Land of the Rose went he,
            Singing alone,
            In a low love-tone,
A Little Maid sat in a Jonquil Tree.

The Little Maid's eyes had a rainbow hue,
        And her sunset hair
        Was woven with care
In a knot that was fit for a Psyche to wear;
        And she pressed her lips
        With her...

Arthur Macy

At Twilight Time

At twilight time when tolls the chime,
    And saddest notes are falling,
A lonely bird with plaintive word
    Across the dusk is calling.
Vain doth it wait for one dear mate,
    That ne'er shall know the morrow;
Then sinks to rest with drooping crest
    In one long dream of sorrow.

Dearest, when night is here,
    To thee I'm calling,
Sadly as tear on tear
    Is slowly falling,
Oh, fold me near, more near -
    In love enthralling!
Here on thy breast,
    While life shall last,
With thee I stay.
    Here will I rest
Till night is past,
    And comes the day!

Arthur Macy

The Old Cafe

You know,
Don't you, Joe,
Those merry evenings long ago?
You know the room, the narrow stair,
The wreaths of smoke that circled there,
The corner table where we sat
For hours in after-dinner chat,
And magnified
Our little world inside.
You know,
Don't you, Joe?

Ah, those nights divine!
The simple, frugal wine,
The airs on crude Italian strings,
The joyous, harmless revelings,
Just fit for us - or kings!
At times a quaint and wickered flask
Of rare Chianti, or from the homelier cask
Of modest Pilsener a stein or so,
Amid the merry talk would flow;
Or red Bordeaux
From vines that grew where dear Montaigne
Held his domain.
And you remember that dark eye,
None too shy;
In fact, she seemed a bit too free
For y...

Arthur Macy