Ask not overmuch for fair
Form and face: let women be
Good: beauty is but a snare:
Gladly woo, if good is she.

After the strewn leaves of roses
Richer the rich mind uncloses.
Boorish is he, and unwise,
Who judges women by the eyes.

I Waited full two hours, or more,
Beneath the old pine tree,
Where oft I've lingered twilight hours,
Watching, my Love, for thee.

I waited till the shadows grew
Like giants, grim and grey;
I waited till night's coming chased
The shadows far away.

I waited for, I knew not what;
But, oh, I waited there,
Hoping, perchance, some ray to find,
To lighten my despair.

A year ago last May, I sat
Beneath the old pine-tree;
My tryst was not a broken one,
For, Love, you came to me.

I waited, and my spirit called

Yesternight thy languorous glances Of my life and soul beraught me;
But thy ruby lip with kisses, Of its favour, new life brought me.

No to-day's growth my love-liking For that musky down of thine is;
Long time with the wine of passion Hath its crescent-cup distraught me.

Well my constancy this showeth That, in spite of thine oppression,
From thy quest I rested never, Albe weariness besought me.

Righteousness nor yet amendment Hope from me, the tavern-haunter;
For unto the topers' service, Ere I was, The Fates forethought me.

'Twixt heat and cold, 'twixt death and life,
I freeze and burn, I live and die;
Which jointly work in me such strife,
I live in death, in cold I fry:
Nor hot, nor cold, nor 'live, nor dead,
Neither, and both, this life I lead.

First, burning heat sets all on fire,
Whereby I seem in flames to fry;
Then cold Despair kills hot Desire,
That drenched deep in death I lie:
Heat drives out cold, and keeps my life;
Cold quencheth heat, no end of strife.

The less I hope to have my will,
The more I feel desire increase;

They say that shadows of deceased ghosts
Do haunt the houses and the graves about,
Of such whose life's lamp went untimely out,
Delighting still in their forsaken hosts:
So, in the place where cruel Love doth shoot
The fatal shaft that slew my love's delight,
I stalk, and walk, and wander day and night,
Even like a ghost with unperceived foot.
But those light ghosts are happier far than I,
For, at their pleasure, they can come and go
Unto the place that hides their treasure so,
And see the name with their fantastic eye:

God doth embrace the good with love; & gaines
The good by mercy, as the bad by paines.

“D O YOU NOT KNOW I LOVE YOU ?”—So you cried,
And blessed my lips with kisses multiplied,
Sweeter than those for which Adonis died—
Kisses that promised true love's long endurance;
While your dear eyes in mine my soul were reading,
With wistful, anxious, eager question pleading,
To know if I believed the sweet assurance.

“Y ES , I DO KNOW YOU LOVE ME ,”—I replied,
“And in that love I am beatified;
“It is my wealth, my glory, and my pride,
“The evening-glory of a clouded west:”—
Without it earth were but a desert dreary,

Without a home at holy Christmas-tide,
Sad-hearted at the feast of all the year,
These were strange words you told me, Phoebe dear;
I have no social joys when all beside
Meet with such blessed mirth round happy fires.
When the long-parted greet and draw fresh love
From ceaseless flow of talk that never tires;
Through all the homes there is no place for me.
No place, no room; dear friend, if it can be
One thought of joy to you, then know
My heart grew larger at your words, as though
It would have answered, “Hearts are homes, look in and see.”

From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
Whatever gods may be
That no life lives for ever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea.

Then star nor sun shall waken,
Nor any change of light:
Nor sound of waters shaken,
Nor any sound or sight:
Nor wintry leaves nor vernal,
Nor days nor things diurnal;
Only the sleep eternal
In an eternal night.

Where honeysuckles round our porch entwine,
Two mated thrushes wove their hidden dwelling,
Some instinct of familiar trust impelling
(More subtly true than timorous design)
Their choice of nesting in that house of vine.
They are returned! each tender bosom swelling,
Athrob with joy of spring, their love retelling,
Intoxicate with song's melodious wine!
Morning and evening, still one madrigal,
In few soft flute-notes warbled sweet and clear,
Quavers upon the perfumed atmosphere!
Their mutual bliss do these dear songsters call,