O fathomless profound of rest,
In God to read a Father's name;
And childlike clinging to His breast
My birthright in His love to claim!

O miracle of grace to kneel
With boldness at the Throne of thrones;
Blood-wash'd, with nothing to conceal;
White-robed amid God's ransom'd ones!

O mystery of love divine!
Eternal Spirit, dost Thou choose
To make my lowly heart Thy shrine
And there Thy light of life diffuse?

And am I of the chosen Bride
Given by the Father to the Son,
In all His glory glorified,
And in His perfect union one?

I BROKE my heart because of you, my dear;
I wept full many an unmanly tear—
But as in agony I lay awake
I thought, “What lovely poems this will make!”

He loves not well whose love is bold!
I would not have thee come too nigh:
The sun's gold would not seem pure gold
Unless the sun were in the sky;
To take him thence and chain him near
Would make his beauty disappear.

He keeps his state,—keep thou in thine,
And shine upon me from afar!
So shall I bask in light divine,
That falls from love's own guiding star;
So shall thy eminence be high,
And so my passion shall not die.

But all my life shall reach its hands
Of lofty longing toward thy face,
And be as one who speechless stands

Among thy Fancies, tell me this,
What is the thing we call a kisse?
I shall resolve ye, what it is.

It is a creature born and bred
Between the lips, (all cherrie-red,)
By love and warme desires fed,
Chor. And makes more soft the Bridall Bed.

It is an active flame, that flies,
First, to the Babies of the eyes;
And charmes them there with lullabies;
Chor. And stils the Bride too, when she cries.

Then to the chin, the cheek, the eare,
It frisks, and flyes, now here, now there,
'Tis now farre off, and then tis nere;

Amidst the fairest mountain tops,
Where Zephyrus doth breathe
The pleasant gale, that clothes with flowers
The valleys underneath,

A shepherd lived, that dearly loved
(Dear love time brought to pass)
A forest nymph, who was as fair
As ever woman was.

His thoughts were higher than the hills
Whereof he had the keep,
But all his actions innocent,
As humble as his sheep:

Yet had he power, but her pure thoughts
Debarred his powers to rise
Higher than kissing of her hands
Or looking in her eyes.

One day (I need not name the day

All day I tell my rosary
For now my love's away:
To-morrow he shall come to me
About the break of day;
A rosary of twenty hours,
And then a rose of May;
A rosary of fettered flowers,
And then a holy-day.

All day I tell my rosary,
My rosary of hours:
And here's a flower of memory,
And here's a hope of flowers,
And here's an hour that yearns with pain
For old forgotten years,
An hour of loss, an hour of gain,
And then a shower of tears.

All day I tell my rosary,
Because my love's away;
And never a whisper comes to me,

Love setteth me a-burning,
When my new spouse had won me;
My piteous state discerning,
Had set his ring upon me:
The conqueror's prize returning,
Love's knife had all undone me,
All my heart broke with yearning.
Love setteth me a-burning.

My heart was broke asunder:
Earthward my body sprawling,
The arrow of Love's wonder
From out the crossbow falling,
Like to a shaft of thunder
Made war of peace, enthralling
My life for passion's plunder.
Love setteth me a-burning.

I die of very sweetness.
Yet be thou not astounded.

Praise the Lord for all the seasons,
Praise Him for the gentle spring,
Praise the Lord for glorious summer,
Birds and beasts and everything.
Praise the Lord Who sends the harvest,
Praise Him for the winter snows;
Praise the Lord, all ye who love Him,
Praise Him, for all things He knows.

Once on a time, once on a time,
—Before the Dawn began,
There was a nymph of Dian's train
—Who was beloved of Pan;
Once on a time a peasant lad
—Who loved a lass at home;
Once on a time a Saxon king
—Who loved a queen of Rome.

The world has but one song to sing,
—And it is ever new,
The first and last of all the songs
—For it is ever true—
A little song, a tender song,
—The only song it hath;
“There was a youth of Ascalon
—Who loved a girl of Gath.”

A thousand thousand years have gone,
—And æons still shall pass,

Ifreeze, I freeze, and nothing dwels
In me but Snow, and ysicles.
For pitties sake give your advice,
To melt this snow, and thaw this ice;
I'le drink down Flames, but if so be
Nothing but love can supple me;
I'le rather keepe this frost, and snow,
Then to be thaw'd, or heated so.