Sweet bird! whose fate and mine agree,
As far as proud humanity,
The parellel will own;
O let our voice and hearts combine,
O let us, fellow-warblers join,
Our patroness to crown.

When heavy hung thy flagging wing,
When thou could'st neither move nor sing,
Of spirits void and rest;
A lovely nymph her aid apply'd,
She gave the bliss to heav'n allied,
And cur'd thee on her breast.

Me too the kind indulgent maid,
With gen'rous care and timely aid,
Restor'd to mirth and health;
Then join'd to her, O may I prove

Two mothers met one day at the door of a church.
One entered, full of radiant joy,
Proud and triumphant, carrying in her arms
Her little child for baptism.

The other, the unhappy one, leaving the threshold,
Also carried a child, but this poor mother
Brought it, dead, for burial.

A few more steps and the two met
She who bore in her happy arms
The child of her love;
The other, bathed in tears,
Who followed her dead baby.

Their eyes met. And at that moment
It was the happy mother from whose eyes

He who satire loves to sing,
On himself will satire bring.

The twilight fleeted away in pearl on the stream,
And night, like a diamond dome, stood still in our dream.
Your eyes like burnished stones or as stars were bright
With the sudden vision that made us one with the night.

We loved in infinite spaces, forgetting here
The breasts that were lit with life and the lips so near;
Till the wizard willows waved in the wind and drew
Me away from the fulness of love and down to you.

Our love was so vast that it filled the heavens up:
But the soft white form I held was an empty cup,

I will sing of dainty Eros
Decked with many-coloured garlands:
He is master of the Immortals,
He is victor over men!

The stars around the lovely moon
Their radiant visage hide as soon
As she, full-orbed, appears to sight,
Flooding the earth with her silvery light.

Lady, pray pardon mine excess,
But when your simple suppliant woos,
Despite his Yankee scarletness,
He has Those Sentimental Blues.
Yet, though the yappiest of hicks,
Unsentimental as a derrick,
He learned a lot of mushy tricks
From Robert Herrick.

“Love in my bosom like a bee”
(From Lodge I lift that lovely line)
“Love still hath something of the sea”
(Sedley) “And I'll not ask for wine”
(Jonson). From Byron's Athens Maid,
From girls in Wither, Cowley, Fletcher,
Tennyson, Waller, Dobson, Praed
I've swiped, you betcher.

A gap is in our fireside-ring
The wideness of a tiny tomb;
A prattle sweet as birds can sing
Has left its hush in every room.

Our hearts long for the pretty charms
Of babish questions manifold,
And for the little hugging arms
Now locked across a bosom cold.

The bright hair and the eyes that beamed
So wondrously, O, how we miss!
And, O, the loving lips! that seemed
Fashioned so purposely to kiss.

As they who, yearning over sea,
Grow homesick for their land and kin,
So we grow heaven-sick to be

Had I but clung in love to Rama's feet,
Then of the triple agony by night and day alone I had not had to bear the pain.
Who once finds contentment's sweet immortal wine, even in his dreams:
Why should his mind, beholding vain desires, run like a deer after the phantom lake?
Who sings the greatness of the Lord with understanding heart, with ever growing love.

Why should he roam from door to door like a dog with ever empty belly?
The covetous, who are themselves the bond-slaves of desires, are ministers to all men's whims.

Yon meddler, at me who for love And toping outcry maketh,
The mysteries of the Unseen E'en bold to deny maketh.

Regard thou the myst'ries of Love's Perfection and not sin's blemish:
The meritless man his sole aim Defects to descry maketh.

The cupbearer's glances the path Of Islam waylay on such fashion
That none, save he be a Suhéib, O' the grape-juice red fie maketh.

There breatheth abroad in the land The scent of the Houris of Heaven,
When she of our winehouse's dust The scent of her ply maketh.