Pale little princess passionate and shy,
With delicate small hands and heavy hair,
A simple child-like creature wild and fair,
Yet shadowed by a haunting mystery.
Born to, I know not what, high destiny,
And driven out to darkness and despair,
To see at last a love divine and rare
Slain by a jealous husband … and to die!

How listlessly you turned from love and tears,
Yet looking in the eyes of Death you smiled
And stretched out wistful arms, as though once more
Your Pelleas had entered at the door.
And Death was kind to you, a weary child,

Sweet Love is dead,—yes, dead and laid to rest.
Ah, dainty was the fabric of his shroud,
Cut from the pearly edges of a cloud.
They placed a fragrant lily on his breast,
And all the souls his visitings had blest
Followed him to the grave with heads low bowed,
Though there were many great, and good, and proud.
And those by fame and fortune oft caressed.
Poor Love! he could not live when golden dross
Bought the warm kisses that were once his due,
Paid for the tender clasp of clinging hands,
And banished the fair flowers that were the bands

He fell for Spain,—her Spain no more;
For he was gone who made it dear;
And she would seek some distant shore,
Away from strife and fear,
And wait amid her sorrows till the day
His voice of love should call her thence away.

Too late for thee, thou young, fair bride!
The lips are cold, the brow is pale,
That thou didst kiss in love and pride;
He cannot hear thy wail,
Whom thou didst lull with fondly murmured sound:
His couch is cold and lonely in the ground.

When the nightingale in the leaves
Gives, seeks, and takes love,
And happily begins his song,
And gazes often at his mate,
And the streams are clear and the meadows fair,
Because of the new pleasure which prevails,
A great joy settles in my heart.

I am eager for a love affair—
For I know no more worthy enjoyment—
Which I pray for and desire, and it would be good
If she made me a gift of love;
For she has a full body, delicate and fair,
With nothing that could be unbecoming,
And her good, pleasurable love.

I am preoccupied with this love

My love was warm; for that I crossed
The mountains and the sea,
Nor counted that endeavour lost
That gave my love to me.

If that indeed were love at all
As still, my love, I trow,
By what dear name am I to call
The bond that holds me now?

O know to end, as to begin;
A minute's loss in love is sin.
These homours will the night outwear
In their own pastimes here;
You do our rites much wrong
In seeking to prolong
These outward pleasures:
The night hath other treasures
Than these, though long concealed,
Ere day to be revealed.
Then know to end, as to begin;
A minute's loss in Love is sin.
(from Masque of Hymen)

What but the love of God could have softened
And made forgiving the people of Spoon River
Toward me who wronged the bed of Thomas Merritt
And murdered him beside?
Oh, loving hearts that took me in again
When I returned from fourteen years in prison!
Oh, helping hands that in the church received me
And heard with tears my penitent confession,
Who took the sacrament of bread and wine!
Repent, ye living ones, and rest with Jesus.

Oh my love's like the red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June;
My love's like the melody
That's sweetly played in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonny lass,
So deep in love am I;
And I can love thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only love,
Oh fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my love,
Though 'twere ten thousand mile.

A Rhyme of good Death's inn!
My love came to that door;
And she had need of many things,
The way had been so sore.

My love she lifted up her head,
“And is there room?” said she;
“There was no room in Bethlehem's inn
For Christ who died for me.”

But said the keeper of the inn,
“His name is on the door.”
My love then straightway entered there:
She hath come back no more.