Who wins his Love shall lose her,
—Who loses her shall gain,
For still the spirit wooes her,
—A soul without a stain;
And Memory still pursues her
—With longings not in vain!

He loses her who gains her,
—Who watches day by day
The dust of time that stains her,
—The griefs that leave her gray,
The flesh that yet enchains her
—Whose grace hath passed away!

Oh, happier he who gains not
—The Love some seem to gain:
The joy that custom stains not
—Shall still with him remain,
The loveliness that wanes not,
—The Love that ne'er can wane.

The lovely years went lightly by
As April flowers go,
And often you would laugh or cry
To see how I could grow.

The lonely years drift by in rain,
As leaves in Autumn do.
I long, when we shall meet again,
To be as tall as you.

Well , if the thing is over, better it is for me,
The lad was ever a rover, loving and laughing free,
Far too clever a lover not to be having still
A lass in the town and a lass by the road and a lass by the farther hill—
Love on the field and love on the path and love in the woody glen—
(Lad, will I never see you, never your face again?)

Ay, if the thing is ending now I'll be getting rest,
Saying my prayers and bending down to be stilled and blest,
Never the days are sending hope till my heart is sore

Fair love, o'er my heart let thy gentle hand pass.
Dost hear in that chamber the knocking, alas!
A carpenter cross-grained and spiteful dwells there,
Who's making for me a coffin so rare.

There's tapping and rapping by night and by day,
'Tis long since it drove all my slumber away.
Oh, good Master Carpenter, hammer amain,
That soon I may slumber right soundly again.

Over the rush of the brown reedy grasses,
Shadows are shimmering, shading along.
Down in the hush of the green marshy passes,
Echoes the trill of the troubadour's song—
“Sweetheart! Sweetheart! Sweetheart!
Come! Come! Come!”

Breezes have swooned with the pelf that they carried,
Sweeping the petals of orange a-bloom;
Beauty is bride, and her handmaids have tarried,
Scattering guerdons, for love is the groom.
“Sweetheart! Sweetheart! Sweetheart!
Come! Come! Come!”

Purple the haze, where the sun-light is drifting,

Lonely at night my watch I keep,
While all the world is hush'd in sleep.
Then tow'rd my home my thoughts will rove;
I think upon my distant love.

When to the wars I march'd away,
My hat she deck'd with ribbons gay;
She fondly press'd me to her heart,
And wept to think that we must part.

Truly she loves me, I am sure,
So ev'ry hardship I endure;
My heart beats warm, though cold's the night;
Her image makes the darkness bright.

Now by the twinkling taper's gleam,
Her bed she seeks, of me to dream,
But ere she sleeps she kneels to pray

A lovely woman rolls up
The delicate bamboo blind.
She sits deep within,
Twitching her moth eyebrows.
Who may it be
That grieves her heart?
On her face one sees
Only the wet traces of tears.

I can remember our sorrow, I can remember our laughter;
I know that surely we kissed and cried and ate together;
I remember our places and games, and plans we had—
The little house and how all came to naught—
Remember well:
But I cannot remember our love,
I cannot remember our love.

Who shall sing of the bridal in valleys of autumn, among the vineyards and the cornfields,
Or tell of the scent of apples on the night of love?
Who shall chant of the blood-red harvest-moon above the granaries and the wine-press,
And dropping fruits and the kiss of Adam and Eve?

O white miraculous bodies that becoming one, change to a channel
For all fire of all suns, the ecstasy of Creation:
And by no love of a sterile God in the heavens,
And by no love of a memory or an idol of the Past,
But by strong love of the living God, even the Life in each other,

Lord, from whose glorious presence came
The truth that made our fathers free,
And kindled in their hearts the flame
Of love to man and love to thee.

Bow the great heavens, thy throne of light,
And fill these walls, as once, of yore,
Thy spirit rested in its might
Upon the ark that Israel bore.

Here, let thy love be strong to draw
Our wavering hearts to do thy will,
And hush them with the holy awe
That makes the rebel passions still.

And while thy children, frail and blind,
Here bend in humble prayer to thee,