« ZurückWeiter »
O let not words, the callous shell of thought,
Intrude between thy silent soul and mine! Try not the choicest ever poet wrought;
They all are discord in our life divine.
Smile not thine unbelief; but hear and say All that thou will'st, and then upon my
breast Thy gracious head in silent passion lay,
One little hour; and tell me which is best.
Now let us live our love; in after hours Words shall fit handmaids to sweet me
mory be; But let them not disturb those holier bowers,
The voiceless depths of perfect sympathy.
H. M. MILNES.
WELCOME, welcome, do I sing,
Breaking from your iv'ry pale,
The delightful nightingale. He that looks still on your eyes,
Though the winter have begun, To benumb our arteries,
Shall not want the summer's sun.
He that still may see your cheeks,
Where all rareness still reposes;
Other lilies, other roses.
And perceives your breath in kissing, All the odours of the fields,
Never, never shall be missing.
He that question would anew
What fair Eden was of old,
And a brief of that behold.
LANSDOWNE MS. NO. 777.
If thou would'st have me paint The home to which, could love fulfil its
prayers, This hand would lead thee, listen :- A deep
vale Shut out by Alpine hills from the rude world, Near a clear lake, margined by fruits of gold And whispering myrtles; glassing softest
As cloudless, save with rare and roseate
shadows, As I would have thy fate! A palace lifting to eternal summer Its marble walls, from out a glassy bower Of coolest foliage, musical with birds, Whose songs should syllable thy name! At
We'll sit beneath the arching vines, and
wonder Why earth could be unhappy, while the
heavens Still left us youth and love! We'd have
no friends That were not lovers; no ambition, save To excel them all in love; we'd read no
books That were not tales of love-that we might
smile To think how poorly eloquence of words Translates the poetry of hearts like ours! And when night came, amidst the breathless
heavens We'd guess what star should be our home
Becomes immortal; while the perfumed light
forth l'the midst of roses !— Dost thou like the
A SONNET UPON A STOLEN KISS.
Now gentle sleep hath closed up those eyes, Which, waking, kept my boldest thoughts
And free access, unto that sweet lip, lies, From whence I long the rosie breath to
draw. Methinks no wrong it were, if I should
steal From those two melting rubies, one poor