Thou must twine thee so lovingly round me,
Thou woman, dear, lovely and warm;
Till with arms and with feet thou hast bound me,
And with all the lithe grace of thy form.

Then she threw herself mightily on me;
She twined, and she wound, and she pressed;
She won me, most beautiful serpent!
Her Laocöon the thrice blest.

The lotus-blossom trembles
At the Sun's resplendent light,
And waits with drooping forehead
In dreams the coming night.

The moon he is her leman,
And wakes her from her dreams;
Her chaste flower-face unveiling,
To him, she meets his beams.

She beams and glows and glimmers,
Her upward gaze she strains,
Pours forth her tears and perfume
Of Love, and Love's sweet pains.

On wings of song I'd bear thee
Away whom I love so well;
Away to the Ganges' prairie;
I know where 'tis fair to dwell.

There in the still noon is sleeping
A gorgeous-flowered grove;
The lotus-flowers are keeping
Watch for the sister they love.

The violets prattle and flutter,
And gaze at the stars above;
In secret the roses utter
Their fragrant stories of love.

Lithe, gentle gazelles come bounding
Nearer to list to the rose;
Afar you may hear resounding,
The Sacred Stream as it flows.

There will we slumber, sinking

The rose and the lily, the dove and the sun,
With a passionate love I once loved every one.
I love them no more—but I love the completest,
The neatest and meetest, discreetest and sweetest.
She herself is love's well-spring, and other there's none,
For she's rose and she's lily, she's dove and she's sun.

Out of my tears many flowers
In rarest bloom arise,
And the songs of a chorus of nightingales
Re-echo out of my sighs.

And little one, if thou wilt love me,
Thine all the flowers shall be;
And the nightingale at thy window
Shall carol his blithest for thee.

There were four-and-twenty ladies dined i the Queen's ha,
And Jean o Bethelnie was the flower o them a'.

Four-and-twenty gentlemen rode thro Banchory fair,
But bonny Glenlogie was the flower that was there.

Young Jean at a window she chanced to sit nigh,
And upon Glenlogie she fixed an eye.

She called on his best man, unto him did say,
O what is that knight's name? or where does he stay?

‘He 's of the noble Gordons, of great birth and fame;
He stays at Glenlogie, Sir George is his name.’

Then she wrote a broad letter, and wrote it in haste;

“What ails my dearie Love? (the old nurse cried)
This bitter trouble now, my pretty dove,
In me confide.”

“He said my cheeks were thin, that I was pale,
And as I looked I saw his love within
Grow faint, and fail.

“Then when he touched my hand, my heart grew chill;
His touch was cold—I do not understand—
It used to thrill.

“Why should his love have failed that once was bright?
It was for love of him I sighed and paled,
And lost delight.

“I sighed for his return the livelong day,
And O, it is a bitter thing to learn
Love fades away.”

Kupris, hither
Come, and pour from goblets of gold the nectar
Mixt for love's and pleasure's delight with dainty
Joys of the banquet.

Shall we make love
Indoors
On this night when the moon has begun to shine
Over the rushes
Of Inami Moor?

A maid of Christ entreateth me
That I for her a love-song write
By which most plainly she may see
The way to choose a faithful knight;
One that to her shall loyal be
And guard and keep her by his might.
Never will I deny her plea,
To teach her this be my delight.

Maiden, thou mayest well behold
How this world's love is but a race
Beset with perils manifold,
Fickle and ugly, weak and base.
Those noble knights that once were bold
As breath of wind pass from their place,
Under the mold now lie they cold,