Each shining light above us
Has its own peculiar grace;
But every light of heaven
Is in my darling's face.

For it is like the sunlight,
So strong and pure and warm,
That folds all good and happy things,
And guards from gloom and harm.

And it is like the moonlight,
So holy and so calm;
The rapt peace of a summer night,
When soft winds die in balm.

And it is like the starlight;
For, love her as I may,
She dwells still lofty and serene
In mystery far away.

Down the dripping pathway dancing through the rain,
Brown eyes of beauty, laugh to me again!

Eyes full of starlight, moist over fire,
Full of young wonder, touch my desire!

O like a brown bird, like a bird's flight,
Run through the rain drops lithely and light.

Body like a gypsy, like a wild queen,
Slim brown dress to slip through the green—

The little leaves hold you as soft as a child,
The little path loves you, the path that runs wild.

Who would not love you, seeing you move,
Warm-eyed and beautiful through the green grove?

Consider this small dust, here in the glass,
By atoms moved:
Could you believe that this the body was
Of one that loved;
And in his mistress' flame playing like a fly,
Was turned to cinders by her eye:
Yes; and in death, as life unblessed,
To have it expressed,
Even ashes of lovers find no rest.

On Udo Beach,
on Udo Beach in Suruga, waves roll in and break;
my love like seven grasses says things that please me,
says things that please me;
my love like seven grasses says things that please me;
when she comes to me, yes, we'll go to bed!
my love like seven grasses says things that please me!

‘O saw ye my father? or saw ye my mother?
Or saw ye my true-love John?’
‘I saw not your father, I saw not your mother,
But I saw your true-love John.

‘It 's now ten at night, and the stars gie nae light,
And the bells they ring ding, dang;
He 's met wi some delay that causeth him to stay,
But he will be here ere lang.’

The surly auld carl did naething but snarl,
And Johny's face it grew red;
Yet, tho he often sighd, he neer a word replied
Till all were asleep in bed.

Up Johny rose, and to the door he goes,
And gently tirlëd the pin;

Ye bubbling springs that gentle music makes
To lovers' plaints with heart-sore throbs immixt,
Whenas my dear this way her pleasure takes,
Tell her with tears how firm my love is fixt;
And, Philomel, report my timorous fears,
And, Echo, sound my heigh-ho's in her ears.
But if she asks if I for love will die,
Tell her, Good faith, good faith, good faith—not I!

One pale November day
—Flying Summer paused,
They say:
—And growing bolder,
—O'er rosy shoulder
———Threw her lover such a glance
———That Autumn's heart began to dance.
————(O happy lover!)

A leafless peach-tree bold
—Thought for him she smiled,
I'm told;
—And, stirred by love,
—His sleeping sap did move,
Decking each naked branch with green
To show her that her look was seen!
(Alas, poor lover!)

But Summer, laughing fled,
—Nor knew he loved her!
———'Tis said
——The peach-tree sighed,
——And soon he gladly died:

This moonlight makes
The lovely lovelier
Than ever before lakes
And meadows were.

And yet they are not,
Though this their hour is, more
Lovely than things that were not
Lovely before.

Nothing on earth,
And in the heavens no star,
For pure brightness is worth
More than that jar,

For wasps meant, now
A star—long may it swing
From the dead apple-bough,
So glistening.

O, YOU plant the pain in my heart with your wistful eyes,
Girl of my choice, Maureen!
Will you drive me mad for the kisses your shy, sweet mouth denies,
Maureen?

Like a walking ghost I am, and no words to woo,
White rose of the West, Maureen:
For it's pale you are, and the fear that's on you is over me too,
Maureen!

Sure it's one complaint that's on us, asthore, this day,
Bride of my dreams, Maureen:
The smart of the bee that stung us his honey must cure, they say,
Maureen!

I'll coax the light to your eyes, and the rose to your face,

O Love , whose patient pilgrim feet
Life's longest path have trod;
Whose ministry hath symbolled sweet
The dearer love of God;
The sacred myrtle wreathes again
Thine altar, as of old;
And what was green with summer then,
Is mellowed now to gold.

Not now, as then, the future's face
Is flushed with fancy's light;
But memory, with a milder grace,
Shall rule the feast to-night.
Blest was the sun of joy that shone,
Nor less the blinding shower;
The bud of fifty years agone
Is love's perfected flower.

O memory, ope thy mystic door;