So soon. Today, love, we
part. And our re-
union—when
will that time come?

A bright lamp
shines on an empty place,
in sorrow and longing:
not yet, not yet, not

L ESTENYT , lordynges, both elde and yinge,
How this rose began to sprynge;
Swych a rose to myn lykynge
In al this word ne knowe I non.

The aungil came fro hevene tour
To grete Marye with gret honour,
And seyde sche xuld bere the flour
That xulde breke the fyndes bond.

The flour sprong in heye Bedlem,
That is bothe bryht and schen:
The rose is Mary, hevene qwyn,
Out of here bosum the blosme sprong.

The ferste braunche is ful of myht,
That sprong on Crystemesse nyht,
The sterre schon over Bedlem bryht

How you haunt me with your eyes!
Still that questioning persistence,
Sad and sweet, across the distance
Of the days of love and laughter,
Those old days of love and lies.

Not reproaching, not reproving,
Only, always, questioning,
Those divinest eyes can bring
Memories of certain summers,
Nights of dreaming, days of loving,

When I loved you, when your kiss,
Shyer than a bird to capture,
Lit a sudden heaven of rapture;
When we neither dreamt that either
Could grow old in heart like this.

Do you still, in love's December,

My Country, right!
True to the laws of God and man,
Loyal to justice, fair to life,
Spurning the bigot's spiteful ban,
Holding the world in love's wide span,
Foe of fraternal strife.

My Country, wrong?
God grant that love may spare that fate;
But, if she errs, God make us wise,
Humbly her faults to contemplate;
Thus may our meekness make her great,
Worthy in Freedom's eyes.

——My Country, right!
True to the laws of God and man,
Loyal to justice, fair to life,
Spurning the bigot's spiteful ban,
Holding the world in love's wide span,

Through all the night I looked upon a face
Bent o'er me in a dream without a word;
Never a flutter nor a breath I heard,
But, ah, the steady eyes were full of grace

And not mere grace alone spoke from those eyes,
—Or else those eyes have done me grievous wrong—
A love was there, sweet, tempered like a song
That floods the soul with splendor and surprise

And all my soul arose, to meet upright
The joy that those can know who taste love's best;
And: “Shine,” I cried, “till all my soul is blest,—
Till all my being answers to such light!”

This earth Pythonax and his brother hides,
Who died before they reached youth's lovely prime.
The tomb their father built them; which abides
For ever, though they lived so short a time.

From Lebanon red morning glances
On billows that foam and toss sunwards;
From Cyprus with white sails advances
The Crusader ship ever onwards.
Rudél, the young prince of Blaye, lies on
The deck, and with fever doth wrestle;
His swimming eyes scan the horizon
For the turrets of Tripoli's castle.

When the far Asian coastline is sighted
His familiar canzone he singeth:
‘O fair foreign Love, to whom plighted
My troth is, I 'm heart-sick for thee.’
Its flight a grey halcyon wingeth,
And prolongs the sweet note of repining;

If I could speak thy gentle grace,
Which far surpasses word,
This rhyme were sweeter, now I trace,
Than ever yet was heard;
For here would blend the morning's glee,
And peace of evening's close,
With music of the summer sea,
And fragrance of the rose.

But since affection's tender strain,
And passion's fervid line,
Would seem but idle, weak, and vain
To goodness such as thine,
Let all my life avouch thy worth,
And all my love thy praise!
For never woman walked on earth
In more angelic ways!

I've seen life's golden prime depart,

I curse the time, wherein these lips of mine
Did pray or praise the dame that was unkind:
I curse my ink, my paper, and each line
My hand hath writ, in hope to move her mind:
I curse her hollow heart, and flattering eyes,
Whose sly deceits did cause my mourning cries.

I curse the sugared speech and Siren's song,
Wherewith so oft she hath bewitched mine ear:
I curse my foolish will that staid so long,
And took delight to 'bide twixt hope and fear:
I curse the hour, wherein I first began,
By loving looks, to prove a witless man.

The minstrel of the classic lay
Of love and wine who sings
Still found the fingers run astray
That touched the rebel strings.

Of Cadmus he would fain have sung,
Of Atreus and his line;
But all the jocund echoes rung
With songs of love and wine.

Ah, brothers! I would fain have caught
Some fresher fancy's gleam;
My truant accents find, unsought,
The old familiar theme.

Love, Love! but not the sportive child
With shaft and twanging bow,
Whose random arrows drove us wild
Some threescore years ago;

Not Eros, with his joyous laugh,