Love should be pure and passionate, a thing
Of flame and flowers frail, elusive, bright,
A sudden splendour, a most proud delight,
Tender as flowers by day,
And fierce as fire by night,
A singing wonder ever on the wing,
A magical, mad mood too sweet to stay.

Love is an inspiration which reveals
The grace of the beloved to our glad eyes,
So we who worship vehemently are wise,
Since shy, strange beauty slips
For us her dark disguise;
And softly from her secret hiding steals,
And passion comes to us with laughing lips.

Love me little, love me long,
Is the burden of my song:
Love that is too hot and strong
Burneth soon to waste.
I am with little well content,
And a little from thee sent
Is enough, with true intent,
To be steadfast friend.
Love me little, love me long,
Is the burden of my song.

Say thou lov'st me while thou live,
I to thee my love will give,
Never dreaming to deceive
While that life endures:
Nay, and after death in sooth,
I to thee will keep my truth,
As now when in my May of youth,
This my love assures.

One's own lips are his heart's best enemies,
And their report True Love but faintly heeds:
O Friend, forget both words and silences,
And learn to read great love in little deeds!

The blooming flowers, the galaxies of space,
Lie pictured in a sheeny drop of even;
And globed in one round word, on lips of grace,
Shine out the best of earth and all of heaven.

Oh ! I vu'st know'd o' my true love,
As the bright moon up above,
Though her brightness wer my pleasure,
She wer heedless o' my love.
Tho' 'twer all gaÿ to my eyes,
Where her feäir feäce did arise,
She noo mwore thought upon my thoughts,
Than the high moon in the skies.

Oh! I vu'st heärd her a-zingèn,
As a sweet bird on a tree,
Though her zingèn wer my pleasure,
'Twer noo zong she zung to me.
Though her sweet vaïce that wer nigh,
Meäde my wild heart to beat high,
She noo mwore thought upon my thoughts,
Than the birds would passers by.

Beyond the north wind lay the land of old
Where men dwelt blithe and blameless, clothed and fed
With joy's bright raiment and with love's sweet bread,
The whitest flock of earth's maternal fold.
None there might wear about his brows enrolled
A light of lovelier fame than rings your head,
Whose lovesome love of children and the dead
All men give thanks for: I far off behold
A dear dead hand that links us, and a light
The blithest and benignest of the night,
The night of death's sweet sleep, wherein may be
A star to show your spirit in present sight

1. There is no name so sweet on earth, No name so sweet in heaven,
The name before his wondrous birth, To Christ the Saviour given.
For there's no word ears ever heard So dear, so sweet as Jesus.
We love to sing around our King, And hail him blessed Jesus.

2. And when he hung upon the tree,
They wrote this name above him,
That all might see the reason we
For evermore must love him.

3. So now, upon his Father's throne,
Almighty to release us
From sin and pains, he ever reigns,
The Prince and Saviour Jesus.

When I am old, and my good days are o'er,
And life and love are less than dreams of dreams,
And my soul sits within the burnt-out core
Of its own ghost, and God Himself but seems:

When, child, you speak, and I know not your name,
And look up dazed, and wonder who you are,
And care no longer if you praise or blame,
Or whether 'twixt us two 'tis peace or war:

Have patience with the unremembering eyes,
Which once their love-thirst from your own did slake;
Think how this heart once thought it Paradise
To burn itself to ashes for your sake!

They bad farewell; but neither spoke of love.
The railway bore him off with rapid pace,
He gazed awhile on Edith's garden grove,
Till alien woodlands overlapp'd the place—
Alas! he cried, how mutely did we part!
I fear'd to test the truth I seem'd to see
Oh! that the love dream in her timid heart
Had sigh'd itself awake, and called for me!
I could have answer'd with a ready mouth,
And told a sweeter dream; but each forebore.
He saw the hedgerows fleeting to the north
On either side, whilst he look'd sadly forth:
Then set himself to face the vacant south,

Thy ring!—ah! that is sad in human life,
That friends forget;—not even part in strife,
Nor shun each other with suspicious eye,
But grudge such little pains as to deny
The fairest flower of life what every weed,
The vilest, sickens when compelled to need.
They see how time cuts deeper year by year,
When soul to soul grows not more near and dear;
Already Love's ripe sheaves their gold display,
And yet they let love starve and pine away;
Heedless they see the bright links fall apart;
And thus does heart forget to cherish heart;