Now when the spirit in us wakes and broods,
Filled with home yearnings, drowsily it flings
From its deep heart high dreams and mystic moods,
Mixed with the memory of the loved earth things:
Clothing the vast with a familiar face;
Reaching its right hand forth to greet the starry race.

Wondrously near and clear the great warm fires
Stare from the blue; so shows the cottage light
To the field labourer whose heart desires
The old folk by the nook, the welcome bright
From the house-wife long parted from at dawn—

Within a book, unopened long,
I find a faded yellow rose,
It lies across a poet's song,
That tells of love and cruel wrong,
And on the margin of the page,
Are two initials, dim with age.
The song I read, the book I close,
And fling away the yellow rose.
No matter! Always, East and West,
Will yellow roses still be pressed.

Within a book, unopened long,
I find a faded yellow rose,
It lies across a poet's song,
That tells of love and cruel wrong,
And on the margin of the page,
Are two initials, dim with age.

Stop running more. You must—indeed you shall.
See how your feet are hurt. Your breath comes fast
And all in vain. Light as you are, you see
I can outrun you, and these briers and brakes
That tear your tender feet will never harm
My horny hoofs. Why do you fly from me?
I mean no ill. Stop. Rest upon this bank,
Soft with green mosses, sprinkled with quaint flowers
And listen to me while you get your breath.
Bacchus is in the distant vale, so far
His cymbals scarcely reach us—far away
Silenus and his rout—they'll never hear

My heart was winter-bound until
I heard you sing:
O voice of Love, hush not, but fill
My life with Spring!

My hopes were homeless things before
I saw your eyes:
O smile of Love, close not the door
To paradise!

My dreams were bitter once, and then
I found them bliss:
O lips of Love, give me again
Your rose to kiss!

Springtide of love! The secret sweet
Is ours alone:
O heart of Love, at last you beat
Against my own!

I love the ruddy cheek, that glows
Bright as the crimson-flowering rose,
That in the Spring most sweetly blows;
But yet I love to see,
More than this cheek that brightly glows,
The eye that sparkles brilliantly.

I love the arm of fairest snow,
Round as the tapering trees that grow,
Where streams in purest currents flow;
But yet I love to see,
More than this arm of fairest snow,
The eye that sparkles brilliantly.

I love the jetty, curling hair,
That floats around the bosom fair,
And waves in tresses on the air;
But yet I love to see,

Vaile, love, mine eyes, O hide from me
The plagues that charge the curious minde:
If beauty private will not be,
Suffice it yet that she proves kinde.
Who can usurp heav'ns light alone?
Stars were not made to shine on one.

Griefes past recure fooles try to heale,
That greater harmes on lesse inflict;
The pure offend by too much zeale,
Affection should not be too strict.
Hee that a true embrace will finde
To beauties faults must still be blinde.

And do I waste my time
Scribbling of love to my beautiful queen
And is it idle to talk in prose & rhyme
Of one who at midnight & morning's prime
In daylight is fancied, in visions seen?
And do I forget the burning crown
That Glory should weave of light for me

Deep within my heart of hearts, dear,
Bound with all its strings,
Two Loves are together reigning,
Both are crowned like Kings;
While my life, still uncomplaining,
Rests beneath their wings.

So they both will rule my heart, dear,
Till it cease to beat;
No sway can be deeper, stronger,
Truer, more complete;
Growing, as it lasts the longer
Sweeter, and more sweet.

One all life and time transfigures;
Piercing through and through
Meaner things with magic splendor,
Old, yet ever new:
This—so strong and yet so tender—

Last night our love seemed splendid certainty;
I held you close and saw the whole round world
With all its fair tumultuous lovely things,
Mirrored within your eyes.

At daybreak, when grey morning slowly lifts
Her heavy eyelids neath the wan sun's gaze,
A cold doubt creeps within my colder heart,
And love seems nought, or at the most seems lies.

She lives, she lives up in the hills,
Where mists and eagles are;
Blithe shepherdess of rocks and rills,
'Twixt mortal and a star.

Of acorns is her necklace made,
And reddest berries found;
While slender vines, in glossy braid,
About her brow are bound.

No fairy foots it half so light,
A dancing on the green;
Nor curls a sunny cloud so bright,
The pines and sky between.

My shepherdess of rocks and rills!
We dwell the world above;
She lives and loves up in the hills,
And I live in her love.