Come, you whose loves are dead,
And, whiles I sing,
Weep, and wring
Every hand, and every head
Bind with cypress and sad yew;
Ribbons black and candles blue
For him that was of men most true!

Come with heavy mourning,
And on his grave
Let him have
Sacrifice of sighs and groaning;
Let him have fair flowers enow,
White and purple, green and yellow,
For him that was of men most true!

I know that his eyes look into mine,
With a joy tongue cannot tell,
And I drink of the cup of love's sweet wine,
And my heart says, “All is Well.”

I know my heart is all my own,
Enchained by love's sweet spell,
That I reign as a Queen on a golden throne,
And my heart says all is well.

Yest'reven, the wind brought news Of the Loved One from oversea:
I also, I gave my heart To the breeze; let what will be!

My case to such straits is come That the gleaming lightning's flash
A confidant is each night And each morrow the wind for me.

My faithless heart, in the plait Of thy browlocks caged, saith ne'er,
“The old accustomed abode Be holden in memory!”

The worth of the counsel of friends And dear ones I know to day.
O Lord, may our counsellors' hearts Be gladdened, I pray, of Thee!

I hope my child'll
Never love a man.
I say I hope my child'll
Never love a man.
Love can hurt you
Mo'n anything else can.

I'm goin' down to the river
An' I ain't goin' there to swim;
Down to the river,
Ain't goin' there to swim.
My true love's left me
And I'm goin' there to think about him.

Love is like whiskey,
Love is like red, red wine.
Love is like whiskey,
Like sweet red wine.
If you want to be happy
You got to love all the time.

I'm goin' up in a tower
Tall as a tree is tall,
Up in a tower

I love the secret place of prayer,
The shining mercy seat;
My precious Lord is always there
And fellowship is sweet.

How blest a refuge when the way
Has seemed so hard to see,
How wonderful to hear Him say,
“Nothing's too hard for Me.”

Alone with God in quietness,
Apart from earthly care,
I praise Him for the blessedness
Of every answered prayer.

My precious Lord invites me to
This privilege so rare—
That's why I love the secret place,
The secret place of prayer!

Merciless Love, whom nature hath denied
The use of eyes, lest thou shouldst take a pride
And glory in thy murthers:
Why am I

That never yet transgress'd thy deity,
Never broke vow, from whose eyes never
Flew disdainful dart,
Whose hard heart none e'er slew,
Thus ill rewarded?

Thou art young and fair,
Thy Mother soft and gentle as the air,
Thy holy fire still burning, blown with prayer.
Then, everlasting Love, restrain thy will,
'Tis god-like to have power, but not to kill.

When my love and I lie dead,
Both together on one bed,
Shall it first be truly said,
“Fate was kindly; they are wed!”

When they come the shroud to make
Some sweet soul shall say, “Awake
From your long white sleep, and take
Feast of kisses for love's sake.”

And though we nor see nor hear—
Safe from sorrow—safe from fear,
Both together on one bier,
We shall feel each other near.

Oh my lover, oh my friend,
This I know will be the end—
Only when our ashes blend
Will our heavy fortunes mend.

In December the stubble nearly is
Most loved of things.
The rooks as in the dark trees are its friends
And make part of it . . .

Now when the hills shine far
And light and set off
That darkness, all my heart cries angrily
That music to fashion

For if not so, one must go
To the stubble every day
For comfort against such emptiness
As lost treasures make.

Cruelly scare the choughs from
Fallows and trees alike—
Though dim in love, or bright far
With the hills heroically they ally.

I WOULD not have this perfect love of ours
Grow from a single root, a single stem,
Bearing no goodly fruit, but only flowers
That idly hide life's iron diadem:
It should grow alway like that Eastern tree
Whose limbs take root and spread forth constantly;
That love for one, from which there doth not spring
Wide love for all, is but a worthless thing
Not in another world, as poets prate,
Dwell we apart above the tide of things,
High floating o'er earth's clouds on faery wings;
But our pure love doth ever elevate
Into a holy bond of brotherhood

When round the paths of boyhood fell the eternal
Pure light of morning, mixed with heaven's own gleams;
When heaven's own emeralds through the foliage vernal
Shone, heaven's own sapphires on the sunlit streams;

Then, in those days when all the world was fairer
Than ever again this sombre world will be;
Then, when the silver moon, love's standard-bearer,
Poured stainless light upon a sinless sea;

Then, in those days, I loved—and in strong fashion.
“Dream-love,” you say? But dream-love is sublime.
Ofttimes I think a boy's exalted passion