Where are the poems gone, of our first days?
Locked on the page
Where we for ever learn our first embrace.
Love come of age
Takes words as said, but never takes for granted
His holy luck, his pledge
That what is truly loved is truly known.
Now in that knowledge
Love unillusioned is not love disenchanted.

Gifts of one who loved me,—
'T was high time they came;
When he ceased to love me,
Time they stopped for shame.

Love hath a name of Death:
He gives a breath
And takes away.
Lo we beneath his sway
Grow like a flower;
To bloom an hour,
To droop a day,
And fade away.

By parental kindness sheltered,
Ne'er the little child had seen
One whose form of lifeless beauty
Wore Death's sad and solemn mien;
Till a youthful, loved companion
Soared to seek an angel's home,
And the little girl was lifted
To behold her lifeless form.

Then the child, no death-scene fearing,
Gazed upon the flowers around,
Wondering that from lips so lovely
Came no pleasant, wonted sound;
Bent she o'er the tiny coffin,—
Sunshine all her face abroad,—
Kissed the cheek of marble coldness,
Whispering, “Give my love to God!”

A LONG the lane beside the mead
—Where cowslip-gold is in the grass
I matched the milkmaid's easy speed,
—A tall and springing country lass:
But though she had a merry plan
—To shield her from my soft replies,
Love played at Catch-me-if-you-Can
———In Mary's eyes.

A mile or twain from Varley bridge
—I plucked a dock-leaf for a fan,
And drove away the constant midge,
—And cooled her forehead's strip of tan.
But though the maiden would not spare
—My hand her pretty finger-tips,
Love played at Kiss-me-if-you-Dare
———On Mary's lips.

He did a deed, a gracious deed—
He ministered to men in need;
He bound a wound, he spoke a word
That God and every angel heard.

He did a deed, a loving deed—
Oh, souls that suffer and that bleed,
He did a deed, and on his way
A bird sang in his heart all day.

Love hath his poppy-wreath,
—Not Night alone.
I laid my head beneath
—Love's lilied throne:
Then to my sleep he brought
—This anodyne—
The flower of many a thought
—And fancy fine:
A form, a face, no more;
—Fairer than truth;
A dream from death's pale shore;
—The soul of youth:
A dream so dear, so deep,
—All dreams above,
That still I pray to sleep—
—Bring Love back, Love!

In cloudy legends of the dawn of years,
Or sculptured verse on shard or shattered stone,
The oldest lore is still of love and tears,
Of wild dark wars and cities overthrown,
And blows and bitter deeds and mad defeat,
Whereof the burden is, “Yet love is sweet.”

And from all ways, where men have dwelt and died,
From nations dwindled to a minstrel's song,
A sound of voices, mingled, multiplied,
A rumor of delight, despair and wrong,
Of sorrows infinite and strange amaze,
Waft down the troubled winds of many days.

Syn I fro Love escaped am so fat,
I never thenk to ben in his prison lene;
Syn I am free, I counte him not a bene.

He may answere, and saye this and that;
I do no fors, I speke right as I mene.
Syn I fro Love escaped am so fat.

Love hath my name ystrike out of his sclat,
And he is strike out of my bokes clene
For evermo; ther is non other mene.

Syn I fro Love escaped am so fat,
I never thenk to ben in his prison lene;
Syn I am free, I counte him not a bene.

The stars are gleaming far and bright;
The winds are keen and cold;
The woolly flocks, all snowy white,
Are cuddling in the fold.
But in my heart such longing lies—
Bright star of yonder shore!
Oh, look from out the shining skies
And hear me as of yore!

The world is wrapped in slumber deep,
All other hearts at rest,
While mine, too aching full for sleep,
Keeps up its lonely quest.
And still my prayers in ardor rise
And climb up more and more—
Oh, bend from out the starry skies
And kiss me as of yore!