How I envy them!
For it is not smoke
rising
from
fires of passion
that surrounds
those villagers
meeting
at break of day.

An old carriage
with its legs near to collapse
stops for a rest —
worn out from traveling far
on
the way

MY love lay there,
In the shadow of my hair,
As my glossy raven tresses downward flow;
And dark as midnight's cloud,
They fell o'er him like a shroud:
Ah! does he now remember it or no?

With a comb of gold each night
I combed my tresses bright;
But the sportive zephyr tossed them to and fro;
So I pressed them in a heap,
For my love whereon to sleep:
Ah! does he now remember it or no?

He said he loved to gaze
On my tresses' flowing maze,
And the midnight of my dark Moorish eyes;

THE LOVE SIN .

None , unless the saints above,
Knew the secret of their love;
For with calm and stately grace
Isolde held ber queenly place,
Tho' the courtiers' hundred eyes
Sought the lovers to surprise.
Or to read the mysteries
Of a love — so rumour said —
By a magic philtre fed
Which for ever in their veins
Burn'd with love's consuming pains.

Yet their hands would twine unseen,
In a clasp 'twere hard to sever;

FROM THE SPANISH. — SIXTEENTH CENTURY

When the day is brightest,
Darkness draweth near;
When the heart is lightest,
Coming grief I fear.

Eyes of heavenly splendour,
Radiance o'er me fling;
But when their light's most tender
I fear its vanishing.

Lips, where passion keepeth
Holiest incense, bend to mine;
But when woman speaketh,

When I gaze at it
these days,
lost in thoughts of love,
how deeply the moon's hue
seems dyed in sorrow

Does this love of mine
face one way only,
never perversely straying?
Rather it is the lemon grass in the meadow,
tossed in ever-shifting winds

one who loves someone
with the one who doesn't

on a snowy day
my bathed body, a finger
a toe — I love all of it

There was an old Derry down Derry,
Who loved to see little folks merry;
So he made them a Book,
And with laughter they shook,
At the fun of that Derry down Derry!