In all things beautiful, I cannot see
Her sit or stand, but love is stir'd anew
'Tis joy to watch the folds fall as they do,
And all that comes is past expectancy.
If she be silent, silence let it be;
He who would bid her speak might sit and sue
The deep-brow'd Phidian Jove to be untrue
To his two thousand years' solemnity.

Ah, but her launchèd passion, when she sings,
Wins on the hearing like a shapen prow
Borne by the mastery of its urgent wings:
Or if she deign her wisdom, she doth show
She hath the intelligence of heavenly things,

My lady pleases me and I please her,
This know we both, and I besides know well
Wherefore I love her, and I love to tell
My love, as all my loving songs aver.
But what on her part could the passion stir,
Tho' 'tis more difficult for love to spell,
Yet can I dare divine how this befel,
Nor will her lips deny it if I err.

She loves me first because I love her, then
Loves me for knowing why she should be loved,
And that I love to praise her, loves again.
So from her beauty both our loves are moved,
And by her beauty are sustain'd; nor when

I travel to thee with the sun's first rays,
That lift the dark west and unwrap the night;
I dwell beside thee when he walks the height,
And fondly toward thee at his setting gaze.
I wait upon thy coming, but always—
Dancing to meet my thoughts if they invite—
Thou hast outrun their longing with delight,
And in my solitude dost mock my praise.

Now doth my drop of time transcend the whole:
I see no fame in Khufu's pyramid,
No history where loveless Nile doth roll.
—This is eternal life, which doth forbid
Mortal detraction to the exalted soul,

The Simmer time in simmers prime
And the sweet meadow grasses
How sweet the swathes the pretty paths
Where throng the bonny lasses
The tawny bee hums oer the lea
There seeking for the hinney
Bright speckled thrush in white thorn bush
Sings sangs of Love to Jeannie.

For Jeannies rare and Jeannies fair
And handsome as she's bonny
And gay she walks and sweet she talks
The fairest maid o' ony
Bullrushes quiver down the river
A sort o' glassy Ocean
A glittering light gems each stem bright
Of the rushes all in motion.

To say “I love you,”—oh, that would be vain
Unless you swore it also! Nay, then still
I'd want the words resaid, resworn, until
All other words were driven from my brain
And these alone, made consecrate, remain.
But oh, my faith's so pitiably ill
With wasting doubts, I know not now what will
Make me believe in spoken words again.

Yet swear this once, and I shall then forbear
To ask new confirmation of your vow.
But what of the many that love and call you fair,
The alien lips that hunger for your brow?
Say then “I love you.” ever and anew,

Sweeter than any name
Of power or blessing, of tumult or of calm,
The pride of any victory with its palm,
Sweeter than fame,
The love we bear to women in our youth,
When ardour cleaves to ardour, truth to truth;

When Beauty casts her sheaf
And flings its loaded treasure at our feet:
But bitter—bitter,—even as this is sweet,
The gathering grief
Of passionate love misplaced, or given in vain,
The love that bears no harvest save of pain.

Why so Coy, my lovely Maid?
Why of Age so much Afraid?
Your Cheeks, like Roses, to the Sight;
And my Hair, as Lillies white;
In Love's Garland, we'll suppose
Me the Lilly, you the Rose.

All that 's beautiful in woman,
All we in her nature love,
All that 's good in all that 's human,
Passed this gate to courts above.

Jesus, sweet is love of Thee
Nor may nothing so sweet be;
Nought that man may think or see
Can have sweetness near Thee.

Jesus, no song may be sweeter
Nor thought in heart blissfuller,
Nought may be felt lightsomer
Than Thou, so sweet a Lover!

Jesus, Thy love was us so free
That it from Heaven brought Thee:
For love full dear Thou boughtest me,
For love Thou hung on Roode-tree.

Jesus, for us Thou hung on Rood
For love Thou gave Thy hearte blood;
Love Thee made our soule's food
Thy love us brought to alle good.

If thou wert by my side, my love,
—How fast would evening fail
In green Bengala's palmy grove,
—Listening the nightingale!

If thou, my love, wert by my side,
—My babies at my knee,
How gayly would our pinnace glide
—O'er Gunga's mimic sea!

I miss thee at the dawning gray,
—When, on our deck reclined,
In careless ease my limbs I lay
—And woo the cooler wind.

I miss thee when by Gunga's stream
—My twilight steps I guide,
But most beneath the lamp's pale beam
—I miss thee from my side.

I spread my books, my pencil try,