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So near at hand (our eyes o'erlooked its nearnessIn search of distant things)A dear dream lay - perchance to grow in dearnessHad we but felt its wingsAstir. The air our very breathing fannedIt was so near at hand.Once, many days ago, we almost held it,The love we so desired;But our shut eyes saw not, and fate dispelled itBefore our pulses firedTo flame, and errant fortune bade us standHand almost touching hand.I sometimes think had we two been discerning,The by-path hid awayFrom others' eyes had then revealed its turningTo us, nor led astrayOur footsteps, guiding us into love's landThat lay so near at hand.So near at hand, dear heart, could we have known it!Throughout those dreamy hours,Had either loved...
Emily Pauline Johnson
Youth And June.
I was your lover long ago, sweet June, Ere life grew hard; I am your lover still, And follow gladly to the wondrous tune You pipe on golden reeds to vale and hill. I am your lover still - to me you seem To hold the fragrance of the joys long dead - The brightness and the beauty of the dream We dreamed in youth - to hold the tears we shed, The laughter of our lips - the faith that lies Back in that season dear to every heart, Life's springtime, when God's earth and God's blue skies Are, measured by our glance, not far apart.
Jean Blewett
Rhymes On The Road. Extract XV. Rome.
Mary Magdalen.--Her Story.--Numerous Pictures of her.--Correggio--Guido --Raphael, etc.--Canova's two exquisite Statues.--The Somariva Magdalen. --Chantrey's Admiration of Canova's Works.No wonder, MARY, that thy story Touches all hearts--for there we see thee.The soul's corruption and its glory, Its death and life combine in thee.From the first moment when we find Thy spirit haunted by a swarmOf dark desires,--like demons shrined Unholily in that fair form,--Till when by touch of Heaven set free, Thou camest, with those bright locks of gold(So oft the gaze of BETHANY), And covering in their precious foldThy Saviour's feet didst shed such tearsAs paid, each drop, the sins of years!--Thence on thro' all thy c...
Thomas Moore
Human Lifes Mystery
We sow the glebe, we reap the corn,We build the house where we may rest,And then, at moments, suddenly,We look up to the great wide sky,Inquiring wherefore we were born For earnest or for jest?The senses folding thick and darkAbout the stifled soul within,We guess diviner things beyond,And yearn to them with yearning fond;We strike out blindly to a markBelieved in, but not seen.We vibrate to the pant and thrillWherewith Eternity has curledIn serpent-twine about Gods seat;While, freshening upward to His feet,In gradual growth His full-leaved willExpands from world to world.And, in the tumult and excessOf act and passion under sun,We sometimes hear, oh, soft and far,As silver star did touch with st...
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Story of Lilavanti
They lay the slender body down With all its wealth of wetted hair,Only a daughter of the town, But very young and slight and fair.The eyes, whose light one cannot see, Are sombre doubtless, like the tresses,The mouth's soft curvings seem to be A roseate series of caresses.And where the skin has all but dried (The air is sultry in the room)Upon her breast and either side, It shows a soft and amber bloom.By women here, who knew her life, A leper husband, I am told,Took all this loveliness to wife When it was barely ten years old.And when the child in shocked dismay Fled from the hated husband's careHe caught and tied her, so they say, Down to his bedside by her hair.
Adela Florence Cory Nicolson
Acle At The Grave Of Nero.
It is a circumstance connected with the history of Nero, that every spring and summer, for many years after his death, fresh and beautiful flowers were nightly scattered upon his grave by some unknown hand.Tradition relates that it was done by a young maiden of Corinth, named Acle, whom Nero had brought to Rome from her native city, whither he had gone in the disguise of an artist, to contend in the Nemean, Isthinian, and Floral games, celebrated there; and whence he returned conqueror in the Palaestra, the chariot race, and the song; bearing with him, like Jason of old, a second Medea, divine in form and feature as the first, and who like her had left father, friends, and country, to follow a stranger.Even the worse than savage barbarity of this sanguinary tyrant, had not cut him off from all human affection; and ...
George W. Sands
Amour 23
Wonder of Heauen, glasse of diuinitie,Rare beautie, Natures joy, perfections Mother,The worke of that vnited Trinitie,Wherein each fayrest part excelleth other!Loues Mithridate, the purest of perfection,Celestiall Image, Load-stone of desire,The soules delight, the sences true direction,Sunne of the world, thou hart reuyuing fire!Why should'st thou place thy Trophies in those eyes,Which scorne the honor that is done to thee,Or make my pen her name immortalize,Who in her pride sdaynes once to look on me? It is thy heauen within her face to dwell, And in thy heauen, there onely, is my hell.
Michael Drayton
A Dream Of Life.
When I was young long, long agoI dreamed myself among the flowers;And fancy drew the picture so,They seemed like Fairies in their bowers.The rose was still a rose, you knowBut yet a maid. What could I do?You surely would not have me go,When rosy maidens seem to woo?My heart was gay, and 'mid the throngI sported for an hour or two;We danced the flowery paths along,And did as youthful lovers do.But sports must cease, and so I dreamedTo part with these, my fairy flowersBut oh, how very hard it seemedTo say good-by 'mid such sweet bowers!And one fair Maid of modest airGazed on me with her eye of blue;I saw the tear-drop gathering thereHow could I say to her, Adieu!I fondly gave my hand and heart...
Samuel Griswold Goodrich
To A Poet
As one, the secret lover of a queen,Watches her move within the people's eye,Hears their poor chatter as she passes by,And smiles to think of what his eyes have seen;The little room where love did 'shut them in,'The fragrant couch whereon they twain did lie,And rests his hand where on his heart doth dieA bruised daffodil of last night's sin:So, Poet, as I read your rhyme once moreHere where a thousand eyes may read it too,I smile your own sweet secret smile at thoseWho deem the outer petals of the roseThe rose's heart - I, who through grace of you,Have known it for my own so long before.
Richard Le Gallienne
Overlooked
Sleep, with her tender balm, her touch so kind, Has passed me by;Afar I see her vesture, velvet-lined, Float silently;O! Sleep, my tired eyes had need of thee!Is thy sweet kiss not meant to-night for me?Peace, with the blessings that I longed for so, Has passed me by;Where'er she folds her holy wings I know All tempests die;O! Peace, my tired soul had need of thee!Is thy sweet kiss denied alone to me?Love, with her heated touches, passion-stirred, Has passed me by.I called, "O stay thy flight," but all unheard My lonely cry:O! Love, my tired heart had need of thee!Is thy sweet kiss withheld alone from me?Sleep, sister-twin of ...
Day Dawn
All yesterday the thought of you was resting in my soul,And when sleep wandered o'er the world that very thought she stoleTo fill my dreams with splendour such as stars could not eclipse,And in the morn I wakened with your name upon my lips.Awakened, my beloved, to the morning of your eyes,Your splendid eyes, so full of clouds, wherein a shadow triesTo overcome the flame that melts into the world of grey,As coming suns dissolve the dark that veils the edge of day.Cool drifts the air at dawn of day, cool lies the sleeping dew,But all my heart is burning, for it woke from dreams of you;And O! these longing eyes of mine look out and only seeA dying night, a waking day, and calm on all but me.So gently creeps the morning through the heavy air,The d...
May-Rose
[FOR A BIRTHDAY: MAY 20]On this day to life she came -May-Rose, my May-Rose!With scented breeze, with flowered flame,She touched the earth and took her name Of May, Rose.Here, to-day, she grows and flowers -May-Rose, my May-Rose.All my life with light she dowers,And colors all the coming hours With May, Rose!
George Parsons Lathrop
In The Night
As to her child a mother calls,"Come to me, child; come near!"Calling, in silent intervals,The Master's voice I hear.But does he call me verily?To have me does he care?Why should he seek my poverty,My selfishness so bare?The dear voice makes his gladness brim,But not a child can knowWhy that large woman cares for him,Why she should love him so!Lord, to thy call of me I bow,Obey like Abraham:Thou lov'st me because thou art thou,And I am what I am!Doubt whispers, Thou art such a blotHe cannot love poor thee:If what I am he loveth not,He loves what I shall be.Nay, that which can be drawn and wooed,And turned away from ill,Is what his father made for good:He loves me, I ...
George MacDonald
Love In A Garden.
I.Between the rose's and the canna's crimson,Beneath her window in the night I stand;The jeweled dew hangs little stars, in rims, onThe white moonflowers each a spirit handThat points the path to mystic shadowland.Awaken, sweet and fair!And add to night try grace!Suffer its loveliness to shareThe white moon of thy face,The darkness of thy hair.Awaken, sweet and fair!II.A moth, like down, swings on th' althæa's pistil,Ghost of a tone that haunts its bell's deep dome;And in the August-lily's cone of crystalA firefly blurs, the lantern of a gnome,Green as a gem that gleams through hollow foam.Approach! the moment flies!Thou sweetheart of the South!Come! mingle with night's mysteriesThe re...
Madison Julius Cawein
Recollections.
Ye dear stars of the Bear, I did not think I should again be turning, as I used, To see you over father's garden shine, And from the windows talk with you again Of this old house, where as a child I dwelt, And where I saw the end of all my joys. What charming images, what fables, once, The sight of you created in my thought, And of the lights that bear you company! Silent upon the verdant clod I sat, My evening thus consuming, as I gazed Upon the heavens, and listened to the chant Of frogs that in the distant marshes croaked; While o'er the hedges, ditches, fire-flies roamed, And the green avenues and cypresses In yonder grove were murmuring to the wind; While in the house were heard, at inter...
Giacomo Leopardi
My Lady in her White Silk Shawl
My lady in her white silk shawl Is like a lily dim, Within the twilight of the room Enthroned and kind and prim. My lady! Pale gold is her hair. Until she smiles her face Is pale with far Hellenic moods, With thoughts that find no place In our harsh village of the West Wherein she lives of late, She's distant as far-hidden stars, And cold - (almost!) - as fate. But when she smiles she's here again Rosy with comrade-cheer, A Puritan Bacchante made To laugh around the year. The merry gentle moon herself, Heart-stirring too, like her, Wakening wild and innocent love In every worshipper.
Vachel Lindsay
Love Song (From A Happy Boy)
Have you love for me,Yours my love shall be,While the days of life are flowing.Short was summer's stay,Grass now pales away,With our play will come regrowing.What you said last yearSounds yet in my ear, -Birdlike at the window sitting,Tapping, trilling there,Singing, in would bearJoy the warmth of sun befitting.Litli-litli-lu,Do you hear me too,Youth behind the birch-trees biding?Now the words I send,Darkness will attend,May be you can give them guiding.Take it not amiss!Sang I of a kiss?No, I surely never planned it.Did you hear it, you?Give no heed thereto,Haste I make to countermand it.Oh, good-night, good-nightDreams enfold me brightOf your eyes' persuasive ...
Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson
She, To Him I
When you shall see me in the toils of Time,My lauded beauties carried off from me,My eyes no longer stars as in their prime,My name forgot of Maiden Fair and Free;When in your being heart concedes to mind,And judgment, though you scarce its process know,Recalls the excellencies I once enshrined,And you are irked that they have withered so:Remembering that with me lies not the blame,That Sportsman Time but rears his brood to kill,Knowing me in my soul the very same -One who would die to spare you touch of ill! -Will you not grant to old affection's claimThe hand of friendship down Life's sunless hill?1866.
Thomas Hardy