If it be love, in every pulse's tide
To feel a secret pure devoted flame
And with feign'd smiles unceasing torture hide
Deep in the soul — my passion has a name!

If it be love, to live but in one thought,
To breathe but for another — weal or woe
Only to feel when from another caught
This, this is Love! ... I feared it must be so!

If it be Love, to worship night and day
One object — On a fond heart's faithful shrine

He came: and down through the gathering shadows
The stars flashed far with a sudden light;
Sweet perfume stole from the damp, dark meadows,
Glory and gladness filled the night.

He went: and over the morning's splendor
A darkness swept to its shining rim;
Earth's throbbing heart-beats glad and tender
Hushed to a silence deep and dim.

Ah dearest love! The ebbing and flowing
Of time and its seasons are naught to me;
Still is it winter when thou art going,
And summer whenever thy face I see.

XX.
What thing is love but mourning?
What desire, but a selfe-burning?
Till shee that hates doth love returne,
Thus will I mourne, thus will I sing,
Come away, come away, my darling.

Beautie is but a blooming,
Youth in his glorie entombing;
Time hath a wheel which none can stay:
Then come away, while thus I sing,
Come away, come away, my darling.

Sommer in winter fadeth,

Hey noyney! I will love our Sir John and I love eny.

O Lord, so swet Sir John dothe kis,
At every time when he wolde pley!
Of himselfe so plesant he is —
I have no powre to say him nay.

Sir John loves me and I love him;
The more I love him, the more I maye.
He says, " Swet hart, cum kis me trim " —
I have no powre to say him nay.

Sir John to me is profering
For his plesure right well to pay,
And in my box he puttes his offring —
I have no powre to say him nay.

Sir John is taken in my mouse trappe;

Somer is comen with love to toune,
With blostme, and with brides roune.
The note of hasel springeth,
The dewes darkneth in the dale.
For longing of the nightegale,
Thes foweles murye singeth.

Ic herde a strif bitweyes two —
That on of wele, that other of wo:
Bitwene two ifere.
That on hereth wimmen that hoe beth hende,

That other hem wole with mighte shende.
That strif ye mowen ihere.

The nightingale is on by nome
That wol shilden hem from shome,
Of skathe hoe wole hem skere;
The threstelcok hem kepeth ay,

Cast up a wreck by Fortune's tide,
The ebbing wave in this lone bay
Has left me by the ocean's side
Mouldering in sure and slow decay;
Love, Hope, Fame, Power, have past away
And with them Joy and Grief and Pride
I live but in my thoughts, and they
Are of the things that long have died!

Who claims that death is one cold, endless sleep,
Has never felt love's gladness in his soul, —
Has never made a woman's heart his goal,
Nor from red lips a harvest tried to reap.
Why should we love if graves are made to keep
Body and spirit in their calm control,
While waves of pulseless slumber o'er us roll,
And centuries unheeded by us sweep!
Who solves the mystery held by one sweet kiss, —
Who reads the song that shines in brilliant eyes, —
Who gathers wisdom from warm, fragrant breath, —

I

Love came to me one Summer day
Amid the mounds of fragrant hay,
Laughed in my face, and went his way.

II

Again, when Autumn woods aflame
With gold and scarlet were, he came,
And whispered low a dainty name.

III

And when the hills grew white with snow,
And high north winds began to blow,
He passed me by with footsteps slow.

IV

And now I wonder, will he bring
His priceless gift when robins sing,
And blossoms fleck the path of Spring?

V

For by the roadway to his gate,

I SANG these songs, by Helen's love made blind,
That fated month that oped my Prince's grave!
Great as his sceptre was, it could not save
C HARLES from the debt we owe to human kind.

Death stood on one side. Lord of heart and mind,
Love ruled me from the other side, and drave
Such torment through my veins, no thought I gave
Even to my King — in my own pain confined.

Now in my heart two different griefs make one:
My Lady's coldness, and the shortened years
Of him I worshipped for his noble fame.

Take thou this rose, sweet even as thou art,
Thou rose of roses rarest, loveliest,
Thou flower of freshest flowers, whose fragrance blest
Enwraps me, ravished from myself apart.

Take thou this rose, and with it take my heart,
My heart that hath no wings, unto thy breast,
So constant that its faith stands manifest,
Though wounded sore with many a cruel dart.

The rose and I are diverse in one thing:
Each morning's rose at eve lies perishing,
While countless mornings see my love new-born