love poem

Adieu, my love, my Mary dear!
Fair rose of innocence, adieu!
The stifled sob, the burning tear,
The trembling voice, are all for you;
For I must cross the stormy main,
Already comes the parting day;
But when on Plata's distant plain,
I'll think of thee, though far away.

Each scene of youthful joys gone by,
That now in memory's chamber sleep,
Shall often rise before my eye,
And bid me think of thee and weep:
And while reclining 'neath the palm,
That rocks before the breeze's sway,

The wind blaws saft frae south to north,
An' wafts the seedlin' frae the flower
Far ower the broad and glassy Forth,
To grow in bonny Aberdour.
Fair Aberdour, dear Aberdour!
O gin I were that seedlin' flower,
That thus the air might bear me ower
To love an' bonny Aberdour.

Gin planted in that fertile soil,
The fairest flower I'd aim to be,
That I might win my laddie's smile,
And light wi' love his sparklin' ee.
Fair Aberdour, dear Aberdour!
O gin I were that seedlin' flower,

Through a valley flows a gentle river,
Gently flows, with waters deep and clear;
In a flowery meadow, spreading near,
Silken leaves of slender poplars quiver.
There a quiet maiden singeth ever
Simple melodies of truth and love:
Pure and artless as the snowy dove,
Evil thought hath stained her bosom never.

Lovely, too, as rose but half unfolded;
Modest as that rose, when bent with dew:
Blue her eye, as heaven's own softest hue;
Lip as fresh as living ruby moulded.
Smiles she hath that tell of sunny feeling, —

Phillida's Love-call to her Coridon and his replying Phil.

Coridon, arise, my Coridon!
Titan shineth clear. Cor.
Who is it that calleth Coridon?
Who is it that I hear? Phil.
Phillida, thy true love, calleth thee.
Arise then, arise then!
Arise and keep thy flock with me! Cor.
Phillida, my true love, is it she?
I come then, I come then,
I come and keep my flock with thee. Phil.

Not his first love, nor last, was she who bore
His name now. Yet he would not have her guess
That it was less of love than loneliness
Had brought him tardily suppliant to her door.
Penurious years had taught him to be more
Frugal than once — content with something less
Than the consummate bliss he must confess
He counted now but myth or metaphor.

Yet, lacking love, he gave good counterfeit
In tenderness, forever vigilant lest
Gesture or glance might lead her to surmise
The counterfeit. He envied her a bit

The fairy poet takes a sheet
Of moonbeam, silver white;
His ink is dew from daisies sweet,
His pen a point of light.

My love I know is fairer far
Than his, (though she is fair,)
And we should dwell where fairies are —
For I could praise her there.

I

What is love of one's land? ...
I don't know very well.
It is something that sleeps
For a year, for a day,
For a month — something that keeps
Very hidden and quiet and still,
And then takes
The quiet heart like a wave,
The quiet brain like a spell,
The quiet will
Like a tornado; and that shakes
The whole of the soul.

II

It is omnipotent like love;

Some tell of Thebes and some relate
Of Phrygian wars the conflicts dire;
But I, who feel no martial fire,
A captive, glory in my fate.

Of fleets victorious am I
No slave; nor yet an army's prize:
My conquerors they are the sly
Foes darting fires from my love's eyes.

Like a child engrossed in play, you sit, young mother, by the cradle, and your mock-serious face looks so childishly charming, childishly charming the face and childlike blue the eyes .
With smile-wreathed lips sleeps the child in the cradle; it is also time for the little lovely mother to retire ... Yet the little, lovely mother with her head nods: nay ...

She could have loved — her woman-passions beat
Deeper than theirs, or else she had not known
How to have dropped her heart beneath their feet
A living stepping-stone:

The little hands — did they not clutch her heart?
The guarding arms — was she not very tired?
Was it an easy thing to walk apart,
Unresting, undesired?

She gave away her crown of woman-praise,
Her gentleness and silent girlhood grace