I twine the silent mists within my hair
And mark the morning from the mountain-peak,
While round me the sonorous thunders speak
And strange light quivers through the thin pure air.
For thee, sweetheart, this valley-rose is fair,—
Fair as thine own soft slothful recreant cheek;
Thee the gay valley-sunshine loves to seek:
Thou wouldst not the steep flowerless high paths dare.

And yet I love thee! though thou art so far
Away from me, I love thee, sweetheart mine!
Far down the valley thy bright soul doth shine,

You eager ask me Delia's name,
What nymph I love so well?
So pure, so delicate my flame,
I cannot bear to tell:

Then cease with importuning art
To urge me to declare
The dearest secret of my heart—
Her name is written there.

I fell in love with a fair maid
And she to love was not afraid;
Our lips made answer, kiss for kiss,
And soon we reached love's perfect bliss.

But who I am and who is she,
And how we came thus to agree,
All that is still beneath the rose—
Venus alone our secret knows.

Not by standing at their graves and weeping
Win we audience of the ghostly throng:
Those we left beneath the green grass sleeping
Need not tears it may be, only song.

Not by ceaseless groans and bitter anguish
Shall we reach their hearts and bring them nigh:
Not by wringing idle hands that languish;
Not by watching starless wastes of sky.

Where the strong sun gilds the morning mountains,
Where the ceaseless crystal waters leap
Laughing from the depths of rainbow fountains,
There are those we left alone, asleep.

Oh Thou! whose sacred Light in Darkness beam'd!
Whose Grace supports us—and whose Love redeem'd!—
Complete within my soul thy blest design,
And make my struggling heart for ever Thine?

My True-love hath no wealth they say;
But when they do, I tell them nay,—
For she hath wealth of golden hair,
Shot through with shafts from Delos' bow,
That shines about her shoulders rare.
Like sunlight on new driven snow.

My True-love hath no wealth they say;
But when they do, I tell them nay,—
For she hath eyes so soft and bright,
So deep the light that in them lies,
That stars in heaven would lose their light
Ashine beside my True-love's eyes.

My True-love hath no wealth they say;
But when they do, I tell them nay,—

I am a bohemian maid,
Blue eyed, fair and airy;
Would you know my name? my name
Is no name but Mary.

W HAT'S to you if I have fled,
Fled to love's embraces,
Eaten hips of eglantine,
Slept in thorny places.

W HAT'S to you, if I allow
Youths of love to chatter;
Let them rattle at my door,
Surely 'tis no matter!

I WILL marry—wherefore talk—
Wherefore talk, my mother;
Am I yet a year too young?
Must I wait another?

No! I'm young—and I am fair—
Gay—blue-eyed and airy—
Would you know the maiden's name,

Two things are there that I love most in this world and in myself;
In myself my two eyes, and in this world all fair creatures.
From the perfume of their tresses I am as one distracted;
Ever will he that has been snake-bitten be thus beside himself.
Looking at the beauty of fair women I have found my God,
Short is the distance between metaphor and fact.
When I gaze at a lovely face my eyes are never sated,
Every hair upon my head becomes as though an eye with looking.
Those of evil nature know nothing of love's troubles;

We never left our love unsaid,
But always made it plain with speech.
With words we cried it each to each;
Where only silences can reach
We thought by words to touch and tread;
With words our love was overspread,
With words, with words our hearts were wed!

We never left our love unsaid,
We never let it take its way
Unwatched and hid; too little dread
We had of love, of love's strange sway.
With words we watched our love decay,
With words we mourned it, with words we pled
And followed after where it fled
And would not leave its death unsaid.

I must stand on tiptoe to reach your lips;
I must stand on tiptoe in my soul to reach you,
To reach the height of my own love—
It is what I want, to have you tall!