You have a son. Your work of art.
Fruit of your love. Cause of your pain.
Child of your thought. Blood of your heart.
Travail of spirit, body, brain.

And there he lies upon your breast,
Most helpless of all living things;
What he loves, is what you love best —
How will it be when he grows wings?

Only from you to take and take
Is all your love of him demands;
Of such dependence can you make
Love that on higher footing stands?

O, close the cord that holds you still:
How slowly will the coil unroll!

Through Liddersdale as lately I went,
I musing on did passe;
I heard a maid was discontent,
she sighd, and said, Alas!
All maids that ever deceived was
beare a part of these my woes,
For once I was a bonny lasse,
when I milkt my dadyes ewes.
With, O the broome, the bonny broome,
the broome of Cowdon Knowes!
Faine would I be in the North Countrey,
to milke my dadyes ewes.

" Geordie Lukely is my name,
And many a one doth ken me; O
Many an ill deed I hae done,
But now death will owrecome me. O

" I neither murdered nor yet have I slain,
I never murdered any;
But I stole fyfteen o the king's bay horse,
And I sold them in Bohemia.

" Where would I get a pretty little boy,
That would fain win gold and money,
That would carry this letter to Stirling town,
And give it to my lady?"

" Here am I, a pretty little boy,
That wud fain win gold and money;

Come lay me soft, and draw me near,
And lay thy white hand over me,
For I am starving in the cold,
And thou art bound to cover me.

O cover me in my distress,
And help me in my miserie,
For I do wake when I should sleep,
All for the love of my dearie.

My rents they are but very small
For to maintain my love withall,
But with my labour and my pain
I will maintain my love with them.

O Arthur's Seat shall be my bed,
And the sheets shall never be fil'd for me,
St Anthony's well shall be my drink,

Love is sofft, love is swet, love is goed sware;
Love is muche tene, love is muchel kare.
Love is blissene mest, love is bot gare;
Love is wondred and wo, wiþ forto fare.

Love is hap wo hit haveþ, love is god hele;
Love is lecher and les, and lef forto tele.
Love is douti in þe world, wiþ forto dele;
Love makeþ in þe lond moni hounlele.

Love is stalewarde and strong to striden on stede;
Love is loveliche a þing to wommone nede.
Love is hardi and hot as glouinde glede;
Love makeþ moni mai wiþ teres to wede.

A house is a house of brick and stone,
If once from its threshold love has flown;
But a house is a home, — oh precious word,
If love nests there like a singing bird!

Of two things one: with Chaucer let me ride,
And hear the Pilgrims' tales; or, that denied,
Let me with Petrarch in a dew-sprent grove
Ring endless changes on the bells of love.

Love came, one night, his wings all wet,
And put his face against the pane,
And shook his ringlets in the rain;
When soon I heard the sweetest noise,
Made 'twixt the wind, his wings and voice;
I heard it, and I hear it yet.

What could I do but ope the door,
And take him softly from the storm,
And rub his rosy body warm,
And hang to dry the slackened bow
And silver arrows, dripping so,
And make him happy as before?

I wist not what he was about:
He took an arrow dry and clean,

I

The pussy-willow and the hazel know,
The bluebird and the robin, what rings true;
I trust to such, and let the whiners go.
Bravo! bluff March; I swing my hat to you.

II

Bring, bluebird, from the blue above
The song Love's heavenly own;
See! hand in hand, come Spring and Love —
Or is it Love alone?

They flush with their love and fill their breasts with it
And say short words, not knowing what they say,
Their meetings have contents and covers,
Jewels and lids. . . .

They can count their love.

How different, O beloved stranger,
Have our meetings been,
When I may not say my love! —
Meetings of mountain and desert,
Open to the wind,
With snow far-off, like a cry,
And on edges of cactus
Red drops
Of the blood of silence.