A little while (my life is almost set!)
I fain would pause along the downward way,
Musing an hour in this sad sunset ray,
While, Sweet! our eyes with tender tears are wet:
A little hour I fain would linger yet.

A little while I fain would linger yet,
All for love's sake, for love that cannot tire;
Though fervid youth be dead, with youth's desire,
And hope had faded to a vague regret,
A little while I fain would linger yet.

A little while I fain would linger here:
Behold! who knows what strange, mysterious bars

This said, he reacht to take his sonne, who (of his armes afraid,
And then the horse-haire plume, with which he was so overlaid,
Nodded so horribly) he clingd backe to his nurse and cride.
Laughter affected his great Sire, who doft and laid aside
His fearfull Helme, that on the earth cast round about it light.
Then tooke and kist his loving sonne and (ballancing his weight
In dancing him) these loving vowes to living Jove he usde
And all the other bench of Gods: ‘O you that have infusde
Soule to this infant, now set downe this blessing on his starre.

The smiling morn, the breathing spring,
Invite the tuneful birds to sing,
And while they warble from each spray,
Love melts the universal lay;
Let us, Amanda! timely wise,
Like them improve the hour that flies,
And in soft raptures waste the day
Among the shades of Endermay.

For soon the winter of the year,
And age, life's winter, will appear;
At this thy living bloom must fade,
As that will strip the verdant shade:
Our taste of pleasure then is o'er;
The feather'd songsters love no more;
And when they droop, and we decay,

A LIE it may be black or white;
I care not for the lie:
My grief is for the tortured breath
Of Truth that cannot die.

And cruelty, what that may be,
What creature understands?
But O, the glazing eyes of Love,
Stabbed through the open hands!

Other lads, their ways are daring:
Other lads, they're not afraid;
Other lads, they show they're caring;
Other lads—they know a maid.
Wiser Jock than ever you were,
Will's with gayer spirit blest,
Robin's kindlier and truer,—
Why should I love you the best?

Other lads, their eyes are bolder.
Young they are, and strong and slim,
Ned is straight and broad of shoulder,
Donald has a way with him.
David stands a head above you,
Dick's as brave as Lancelot,—
Why, ah why, then, should I love you?
Naturally, I do not.

Jesus calls us! O'er the tumult
Of our life's wild restless sea
Day by day his sweet voice soundeth,
Saying, ‘Christian, follow me’:

As of old Saint Andrew heard it
By the Galilean lake,
Turned from home, and toil, and kindred,
Leaving all for his dear sake.

Jesus calls us from the worship
Of the vain world's golden stores
From each idol that would keep us,
Saying, ‘Christian, love me more.’

In our joys and in our sorrows,
Days of toil and hours of ease,
Still he calls, in cares and pleasures,
‘Christian, love me more than these.’

Why each is striving, from of old,
To love more deeply than he can?
Still would be true, yet still grows cold?
—Ask of the Powers that sport with man!

They yok'd in him, for endless strife,
A heart of ice, a soul of fire;
And hurl'd him on the Field of Life,
An aimless unallay'd Desire.

YOU butterfly!
You singing bird!
You dainty sweet
Sweet woman with the dancing feet!
At sight of you, I know not why,
Strange wistful memories are stirred
In my soul's depths, when you flash by.
I love you at each swift heart beat,
Yet sit and never say a word,
So many thoughts thrill thus unheard.

O! little throat,
So slim and white!
Dear voice as deep
Restful and wonderful as sleep…
Our whole souls ache at each full note,
Fall faint with rapture, swoon to flight
And follow where your love songs float,

“Oh brew me a potion strong and good!
One golden drop in his wine
Shall charm his sense and fire his blood,
And bend his will to mine.”

Poor child of passion! ask of me
Elixir of death or sleep,
Or Lethe's stream; but love is free,
And woman must wait and weep.

To me no pastime sweeter seems
Than through the woods to go,
Where throstle sings and falcon screams,
Where leap the hart and roe.

O would my love a throstle were
And sang on yonder spray;
Or, like a roe, came bounding fair—
I'd hunt her all the day!