Ah, brief is Life,
Love's short, sweet way,
With dreamings rife,
And then—Good-day!

And Life is vain—
Hope's vague delight,
Grief's transient pain,
And then—Good-night!

Unknown love
Is as bitter a thing
As the maiden-lily
Which grows in the thickets
Of the summer moor.

O Time has a kiss
For every Miss
And a bed for every Trull!
But thou, my Dearie,
O! Come not near me,
Our love is a wheeling gull.
Lovely he flies 'twixt sea and skies,
He's a silly bird on land.
No wrath of black weathers
Will ruffle his feathers
Like the touch of a capturing hand.

Ah, let me forget!
For now my thoughts are as thick
as once
was my hair—
black then, but
now frosty
as Isonokami's sands.

Think you that I will drain the dregs of Love,
I who have quaffed the sweetness on its brink?
Now by the steadfast burning stars above,
Better to faint of thirst than thuswise drink.
What! shall we twain who saw love's glorious fires
Flame toward the sky and flush Heaven's self with light,
Crouch by the embers as the glow expires,
And huddle closer from mere dread of night?
No! cast love's goblet in oblivion's well,
Scatter love's ashes o'er the field of time!
Yet, ere we part, one kiss whereon to dwell
When life sounds senseless as some feeble rhyme.

My lodging it is on the cold ground,
And very hard is my fare,
But that which troubles me most, is
The unkindness of my dear.
Yet still I cry, "O turn love,'
And I prithee love turn to me,
For thou art the man that I long for,
And alack, what remedy.

I'll crown thee with a garland of straw then,
And I'll marry thee with a rush ring,
My frozen hopes shall thaw then,
And merrily we will sing,
O turn to me my dear love,
And prithee love turn to me,
For thou art the man that alone canst
Procure my Liberty.

The full moon would resemble thee, were it not freckled; and the
sun would be like thee, were it not eclipsed.
Verily I wonder—but how full is love of wonders: accompanied by
anxieties and passion!—
That I see the way short when I go to the beloved, and long when I
journey away from her.

Oh had I the wings of a dove!
Far, far from the world would I fly,
And seek a new home for my love
In those happier regions on high.

I am weary of this lower earth,
Its turmoils, its hopes, and its fears;
The mourning that follows its mirth,
Its mirth that is sadder than tears!

But there is a world yet to come,
By God's presence eternally blest,
Where the good shall inherit a home,
And the weary for ever shall rest.

Oh had I the wings of the dove!
Far, far from the world would I fly,
And find a new home for my love

I am not moved to love thee, my Lord God,
By the heaven thou hast promised me;
I am not moved by the sore dreaded hell
to forbear me from offending thee.

I am moved by thee, Lord; I am moved
at seeing thee nailed upon the cross and mocked;
I am moved by thy body all over wounds;
I am moved by thy dishonor and thy death.

I am moved, last, by thy love, in such a wise
that though there were no heaven I still should love thee,
and though there were no hell I still should fear thee.

I need no gift of thee to make me love thee;

The loves of later life are many and bold
And press their cause with overweening hands;
They smile upon us now from sundry lands,
And some bring pleasures in a cup of gold.
Passion, superb and lustrous, crowns the old
Not seldom; wreathes their foreheads in bright bands
Of flowers, and, smiling, waiteth their commands;
Not all desires at Autumn's touch wax cold.

Yet one word we reserve with holy zeal
For youth alone and first love—even “sweetness:”
This only young joy wins in its completeness;
This only passion newly-crowned can feel;