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And I would lie so light, so light,
I scarce should be unclasped at night.

A trifle, sweet! which true love spells —

True love interprets — right alone.
His light upon the letter dwells,

For all the spirit is his own.
So, if I waste words now, in truth

You must blame Love. His early rage Had force to make me rhyme in youth,

And makes me talk too much in age.

And now those vivid hours are gone,

Like mine own life to me thou art, Where Past and Present, wound in one,

Do make a garland for the heart: So sing that other song I made,

Half-angered with my happy lot, The day, when in the chestnut shade

I found the blue Forget-me-not.

Love that hath us in the net,
Can he pass, and we forget?

Many suns arise and set.
Many a chance the years beget.
Love the gift is Love the debt.

Even so.
Love is hurt with jar and fret.
Love is made a vague regret.
Eyes with idle tears are wet.
Idle habit links us yet.
What is love? for we forget:

Ah, no! no!

Look through mine eyes with thine. True wife,

Round my true heart thine arms entwine; My other dearer life in life,

Look through my very soul with thine! Untouched with any shade of years,

May those kind eyes forever dwell! They have not shed a many tears,

Dear eyes, since first I knew them well.

Yet tears they shed: they had their part
Of sorrow: for when time was ripe,

The still affection of the heart Became an outward breathing type,

Tliat into stillness past again, And left a want unknown before;

Although the loss that brought us pain,
That loss but made us love the more,

With farther lookings on. The kiss,

The woven arms, seem but to be Weak symbols of the settled bliss,

The comfort, I have found in thee: But that God bless thee, dear — who wrought

Two spirits to one equal mind — With blessings beyond hope or thought,

With blessings which no words can find.

Arise, and let us wander forth

To yon old mill across the wolds; For look, the sunset, south and north,

Winds all the vale in rosy folds, And fires your narrow casement glass,

Touching the sullen pool below: On the chalk-hill the bearded grass

Is dry and dewless. Let us go.


0 Love, Love, Love! O withering might!
O sun, that from thy noonday height
Shudderest when I strain my sight,
Throbbing through all thy heat and light,
Lo, falling from my constant mind,
Lo, parched and withered, deaf and blind
I whirl like leaves in roaring wind.

Last night I wasted hateful hours
Below the city's eastern towers:
I thirsted for the brooks, the showers:
I rolled among the tender flowers:

I crushed them on my breast, my mouth:
I looked athwart the burning drouth
Of that long desert to the south.


Last night, when some one spoke his name, From my swift blood that went and came A thousand little shafts of flame Were shivered in my narrow frame.
O Love, O fire! once he drew
With one long kiss my whole soul through
My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.


Before he mounts the hill, I know He cometh quickly: from below Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow Before him, striking on my brow.
In my dry brain my spirit soon,
Down-deepening from swoon to swoon,
Faints like a dazzled morning moon.

v. The wind sounds like a silver wire, And from beyond the noon a fire Is poured upon the hills, and nigher The skies stoop down in their desire;
And, isled in sudden seas of light,
My heart, pierced through with fierce delight,
Bursts into blossom in his sight.

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