They say the most of mothers
Are something pretty fine,
But nobody else's mother
Can be so dear as mine.

She never fails or falters
When things go hard or wrong;
No matter what my troubles,
She'll help me right along.

Her thought for me is endless —
A million times a day
She gives me love and comfort,
For which I cannot pay.

I can't begin to tell her
My love in just a line,
But no one else's mother
Is quite so dear as mine.

These are my scales to weigh reality, —
A dream, a chord, a longing, love of Thee.
Real as the violets of April days,
Or those soft-hid in unfrequented ways;
Real as the noiseless tune to which we tread
The measure we by life's old song are led;
Real as man's wonder what his soul may be, —
A guest for time or for eternity.
Real as the ocean, seen, alas! no more,
Whose tide still beats along my heart's inshore.
These are my scales to weigh reality, —
A chord, a dream, a longing, love of Thee!

There was three worms on yonder hill,
They neither could not hear nor see.
I wish I'd been but one of them
When first I gained my liberty.

Then a brisk young lad came a-courting me,
He stole away my liberty.
He stole it away with a free good will,
He've a-got it now and he'll keep it still.

Oh for once I wore my apron strings low,
My love followed me through frost and snow,
But now they're almost up to my chin
My love passed by and say nothing.

Now there is an alehouse in this town

Tell me no more of minds embracing minds,
And hearts exchanged for hearts;
That spirits spirits meet, as winds do winds,
And mix their subtlest parts;
That two unbodied essences may kiss,
And then like angels, twist and feel one bliss.

I was that silly thing that once was wrought
To practise this thin love;
I climbed from sex to soul, from soul to thought;
But thinking there to move,
Headlong I rolled from thought to soul, and then
From soul I lighted at the sex again.

As some strict down-looked men pretend to fast,

Though I am like Laila, yet my heart loves like Majnun. I wish to keep my head towards the desert, but modesty chains my feet down.
The nightingale came to sit in the company of the flower in the garden, because she was my pupil. I am an expert in love matters: — even the moth is our pupil.

Take it, love!
'Twill soon be over,
With the thickening of the clover,
With the calling of the plover,
Take it, take it, lover.

Take it, boy!
The blossom's falling,
And the farewell cuckoo's calling,
While the sun and showers are one,
Take your love out in the sun.

Take it, girl!
And fear no after,
Take your fill of all this laughter,
Laugh or not, the tears will fall,
Take the laughter first of all.

Sweet nymph, come to thy lover.
Lo here, alone, our loves we may discover,
Where the sweet nightingale with wanton gloses,
Hark, her love too discloses.

Sweet love has twined his fingers in my hair,
And laid his hand across my wondering eyes.
— — I cannot move save in the narrow space
— — Of his strong arms' embrace,
Nor see but only in my own heart where
His image lies.
How can I tell,
— — Emprisoned so well,
If in the outer world be sunset or sunrise?
Sweet Love has laid his hand across my eyes.

Sweet Love has loosed his fingers from my hair,
His lifted hand has left my eyelids wet.
I cannot move save to pursue his fleet
— — And unreturning feet,

Sweet for a little even to fear, and sweet
O love, to lay down fear at love's fair feet;
Shall not some fiery memory of his breath
Lie sweet on lips that touch the lips of death?
You leave me not; yet, if thou wilt, be free;
Love me no more, but love my love of thee,
Love where thou wilt, and live thy life; and I,
One thing I can, and one love cannot--die.
Pass from me; yet thine arms, thine eyes, thine hair,
Feed my desire and deaden my despair.
Yet once more ere time change us, ere my cheek
Whiten, ere hope be dumb or sorrow speak,

Strange , all-absorbing Love, who gatherest
Unto Thy glowing all my pleasant dew,
Then delicately my garden waterest,
Drawing the old, to pour it back anew:

In the dim glitter of the dawning hours
" Not so," I said, " but still these drops of light,
" Heart-shrined among the petals of my flowers,
" Shall hold the memory of the starry night

" So fresh, no need of showers shall there be." —
Ah, senseless gardener! must it come to pass
That neath the glaring noon thou shouldest see
Thine earth become as iron, His heavens as brass?