She says she loves not; but her limbs reveal
The darts of Love that she would fain conceal;
Her eyes deep sunk with purple rings beneath,
Her faltering footsteps and her panting breath.
Come, all ye Cupids, ply your fires in turn
Until the stubborn maid cry out—‘I burn.’

"England! with all thy faults I love thee still,"
I said at Calais, and have not forgot it;
I like to speak and lucubrate my fill;
I like the government (but that is not it);
I like the freedom of the press and quill;
I like the Habeas Corpus (when we've got it);
I like a parliamentary debate,
Particularly when 'tis not too late;

I like the taxes, when they're not too many;
I like a seacoal fire, when not too dear;
I like a beef-steak, too, as well as any;
Have no objection to a pot of beer;
I like the weather, when it is not rainy,

G OD'S world is bathed in beauty,
God's world is steeped in light;
It is the self-same glory
That makes the day so bright,
Which thrills the earth with music,
Or hangs the stars in night.

Hid in earth's mines of silver,
Floating on clouds above,—
Ringing in Autumn's tempest,
Murmured by every dove,—
One thought fills God's creation,
His own great name of Love!

In God's world Strength is lovely,
And so is Beauty strong,
And Light—God's glorious shadow—
To both great gifts belong;
And they all melt into sweetness,

Lest thou forget in the years between
The beautiful things thine eyes have seen:
The light of the sun and the silver sheen
Of cobwebs over a field of green . . .

The birth of love on a destined day
When blossomed the first sweet flowers of May
And sunlight flooded the wistful way;

The vows we took and the prayers we said
When the urge of love to the altars led
And the mystical marriage rites were read;

The sacrament scenes of death and birth;
The tragedies testing human worth—
These are the timeless things of earth!

Blue is the sky, blue is thine eye,—
Which shall I call heaven?
Star is there, and soul is here,—
Tell me which is heaven.
I cannot know unless thou say,
So kin are both in orb and ray,
So full of heavenly feature;
The fall of dews, the flush of hues,
The tenderness of soften'd views,
Lovely alike by night and day,
And both of heavenly nature.

Blue is the sky, blue is thine eye,—
Both would image heaven;
Light is there, and love is here,—
Each the child of heaven.
Oh, might it be, and may it be,

You will remember me in days to come,
With love, or pride, or pity, or contempt,
So will my friends (not many friends, yet some),
When this my life will be a dream out-dreamt;
And one, remembering friendship by the fire,
And one, remembering love time in the dark,
And one, remembering unfulfilled desire,
Will sigh, perhaps, yet be beside the mark;
For this my body with its wandering ghost
Is nothing solely but an empty grange,
Dark in a night that owls inhabit most,
Yet when the King rides by there comes a change,

I LOVE my little gowns;
I love my little shoes,
All standing still below them,
Set quietly by twos.

All day I wear them careless,
But when I put them by
They look so dear and different,
And yet I don't know why.

My oldest one of all,—
Worn out; and then the best;
But that I have not worn enough
To love it, like the rest.

The dimity for Sunday,
The blue one and the wool,
Now that I see them hanging up,
Are somehow beautiful.

Of all the white, with ribbons
Gray-green, if I could choose;
The fichu that helps everything

I seek the woods with courage brave,
I fear no robber's snares;
A loving heart is all I have,
For that no robber cares.

Who breaks, who rustles through the bush,
A murderer threatening death?
My lover forward springs, and—hush!
With hugs nigh chokes my breath!

Love's a gentle, gen'rous passion,
Source of all sublime delight,
When with mutual inclination
Two fond hearts in one unite.

What are titles, pomp or riches,
If compar'd with true content?
That false joy which now bewitches
When obtain'd, we may repent.

Lawless passions bring vexation,
But a chaste and constant love
Is a glorious emulation
Of the blissful state above.

I know not why or whence he came
Or how he chanced to go;
I only know he brought me love,
And going—left me woe.

I do not ask that he turn back
Nor seek where he may rove,
For where woe rules can never be
The dwelling place of love.

For love went out the door of hope
And on and on has fled,
Caring no more to dwell within
The house where faith is dead.