O love, if life should end to-night,
How short our life would seem!
One little flash of summer light;
One brief and passionate dream;
One glimpse of roses on the wall,
Or blue-bells in the lane,
Then, love, the end, the end of all—
Aye, buds might swell, and leaves might fall,
But not for us again!

The stream we used to watch and love
Would ever onward flow;
From the dark pines the grey wood-dove
Would call—we should not know.
Ah! not for us the pines would wave,
For us no stream would run;
We should be silent in the grave,

The noise of shouting strikes my ear,
The tramp of hurrying feet I hear,
They've caught him on the way.
Venus, the men whose hearts he burned
Fiercely upon young Love have turned:
How can you heedless stay!

A WORLD of workers—
Thinkers, builders,
Dreamers, artists,
Writers—workers all;
A vast pulsating host
Of great endeavor—
Working out the Master's plan;
Toiling, sweating,
Grieving—singing,
Playing—resting,
Young or old, weak or strong;
Vainly striving only
Where no love pulsates
From the throbbing Heart of God.

I am not blind—I understand;
I see him loyal, good and wise,
I feel decision in his hand,
I read his honour in his eyes.
Manliest among men is he
With every gift and grace to clothe him;
He never loved a girl but me—
And I—I loathe him!—loathe him!

The other! Ah! I value him
Precisely at his proper rate,
A creature of caprice and whim,
Unstable, weak, importunate.
His thoughts are set on paltry gain—
You only tell me what I see—
I know him selfish, cold and vain;
But, oh! he's all the world to me!

It was my heavenly Father's love
Brought every being forth:
He made the shining worlds above,
And every thing on earth;—

Each lovely flower, the smallest fly,
The sea, the waterfall,
The bright green fields, the clear blue sky;—
'T is God that made them all.

He gave me all my friends, and taught
My heart to love them well;
And he bestowed the power of thought,
And speech, my thoughts to tell.

My father and my mother dear,—
He is their Father too:
He bids me all their precepts hear,
And all they teach me, do.

“Lose and love” is love's first art;
So it was with thee and me,
For I first beheld thy heart
On the night I last saw thee.
Pine-woods and mysteries!
Sea-sands and sorrows!
Hearts fluttered by a breeze
That bodes dark morrows, morrows,—
Bodes dark morrows!

Moonlight in sweet overflow
Poured upon the earth and sea!
Lovelight with intenser glow
In the deeps of thee and me!
Clasped hands and silences!
Hearts faint and throbbing!
The weak wind sighing in the trees!
The strong surf sobbing, sobbing,—
The strong surf sobbing!

Her love is like an island
In life's ocean, vast and wide,
A peaceful, quiet shelter
From the wind, the rain, the tide,

'Tis bound on the North by hope,
By patience on the West,
By tender Counsel on the South
And on the East by rest.

Above it like a beacon light
Shine faith, and truth and prayer;
And through the changing scenes of life
I find a haven there.

Yea, greater is the heart, the soul is freer,
The wind is nobler and the world profounder,
That, girt by ruffian jubilee's frippery gear,
Stands forth, the highest freedom's bold expounder!

Love the whole earth! Love not a single land
Because by chance “thy country” it is called!
A land is never free. Dost kiss the hand
Which into fetters thrust thee, and enthralled?

Oh! break the bonds of narrowness and night!
A scoundrel he that spake: This land for me!
Curse him that scanted thee and me the right
Men and citizens of the world to be!

Yet what to her were burning seas,
Or what to him was forest flame?
They loved; they loved the glorious trees;
The gleaming tides might rise or fall,—
They loved the whispering winds that came
From sea-lost spice-set isles unknown,
With breath not warmer than their own;
They loved, they loved,—and that was all.

Come my love the summers day
Has brought the Cuckows to green trees
Oh come my Mary come away
And let us share the woodland breeze
The woodland breeze I love to share
Where green leaves whisper all the day
Come hither with thy face so fair
Mary my loved one come away

I would not for a world of gold
Thy innocence from beauty steal
Sweet is thy face which I behold
All its Love memories I feel
The swaying boughs the shaking leaves
And every rural sight and sound
The soft wind secret spells he weaves
In every flower spread o'er the ground