Why lovely Boy, why fly'st thou mee
That languish in these flames for Thee?
I' me black, tis true: why so is Night,
And Love does in dark Shades delight.
The whole World, doe but close thine Ey,
Will seeme to thee as black as I,
Or op't, & view what a black shade
Is by thine owne faire Body made
That followes thee where ere thou goe;
(O who allow'd would not doe so,)
Let mee for ever dwell so nigh
And thou shalt need no other shade then I.

A youth was walking in the early hours
Of life, along a garden-alley fair,
When on a sudden, lo! a rose was there,—
Unseen by him before among the flowers
That wove a many-coloured mist of bowers,
And redolent of sweetness made the air.
He came the next day, but would hardly dare
To hope the night's attendant band of showers
Had spared the rose; but lo! the rose was red,
And fragrant, far more fragrant than before,
And fuller petals had unfolded more,
And round about it brighter bloom was shed:
The rose the lover fondly feared was dead,

To him who waits all things, they say,
Will come upon a certain day:
The love that Love's own sloth belates,
The satisfaction of the hates,
For which one yearns, tho' does not pray.

Success will bring the wreath of bay
She filched from Fame, as sleeping lay
The sullen and unwilling Fates,
To him who waits.

It may be true! Ah, yes, it may!
But hearts grow feeble, Faith grows gray;
Her greed for sadness Sorrow sates;
Hope trembles, doubts and hesitates,
While Fortune loiters on her way
To him who waits.

There is no blessedness in life
Apart from blessed Love;
This sanctifies the dreary strife
Which all who live must prove;
It lifts the burden from the soul,
And puts the staff into the hand;
The gloomy clouds behind us roll,
And all before is dawn and fairy-land.

And this we felt when side by side
Beneath those garden trees
We sat, when Spring was in her pride
Of blossoms, birds and bees.
A richer life we needed not,
A time less bright we did not fear,
Than hallowed then that blessed spot,
And made the past and future disappear.

What do the roses say, love, my love,
Glad as the morning and fair as the South?
Bend to me fondly the rose-red leaves
Of your rose-red mouth!

What do the roses say, sweet, my sweet,
Light as the zephyrs and bright as the dawn?
Summer is beckoning, youth is fleet,
Let love love on!

What do the roses say, dear, my dear,
Pale and dewy and blood-red all?
Stay me with kisses, the night is anear,
And the rose leaves fall!

What do the roses say, heart, my heart,
Proud, impatient, and tossed with doubt?

I Own I love; 'tis no uncomely fire
That kindles in my breast intense desire:
I hate myself that yet I love no more;
And yet I more than love; for I adore.
'Tis not just features, sparkling eyes, or air,
That makes the object I admire so fair:
'Tis one exploded for deformity
By others, has ten thousand charms for me.
'Tis not the lilly damask'd with the rose,
That does these bonds upon my soul impose:
Whom others in the vilest terms deride,
I lovelier think than all the world beside.
Myriads of hearts, should they to love conspire,

The red rose whispers of passion,
And the white rose breathes of love;
O, the red rose ia a falcon,
And the white rose is a dove.
But I send you a cream-white rosebud,
With a flush on its petal tips;

For the love that is purest and sweetest
Has a kiss of desire on the lips.

When you are young and all the world is new,
When you are old and it is home to you,
And all through life, in pleasure, hope and pain,
Laughing in sunlight, resting under rain,
Taking all weathers at their welcome worth,
To love and love and love this lovely earth!

Dear Anna, when I think of thee,
My anxious bosom throbs with care—
Ah! would that fate had left thee free,
Or nature form'd thee not so fair!

Thy tender breast should only know
Love's sweetest joys without its smart;
Nor e'er be doom'd to feel the woe
That rankles in my aching heart.

Do tears, in silence, dim thine eye,
And trickle down thy dimpled cheek?
I, too in secret, heave the sigh,
And hide the pang I dare not speak!

Yet of one joy we're both possess'd,
Which surely we may always share—
The picture in each other's breast,

I hear the engine pounding
in triumph down the track—
trains that take away the ones you love
and then they bring them back!

trains take away the ones you love
to worlds both strange and new
and then, with care and courtesy,
they bring them back to you.

The engine halts and sniffs and snorts,
it breathes forth smoke and fire,
then snatches crowded strangers on—
and leaves what you desire.