Listen a while, the moon is a lovely woman, a lonely woman, lost in a silver dress, lost in a circus rider's silver dress.

Listen a while, the lake by night is a lonely woman, a lovely woman, circled with birches and pines mixing their green and white among stars shattered in spray clear nights.

I know the moon and the lake have twisted the roots under my heart the same as a lonely woman, a lovely woman, in a silver dress, in a circus rider's silver dress.

All things that are on earth shall wholly pass away,
Except the love of God, which shall live and last for aye.
The forms of men shall be as they had never been;
The blasted groves shall lose their fresh and tender green;
The birds of the thicket shall end their pleasant song,
And the nightingale shall cease to chant the evening long;
The kine of the pasture shall feel the dart that kills,
And all the fair white flocks shall perish from the hills.
The goat and antlered stag, the wolf and the fox,
The wild-boar of the wood, and the chamois of the rocks,

We who are left must wait the years' slow healing,
Seeing the things they loved, the life they lost—
The clouds that out the east come, huge, concealing
The angry sunset, burnished, tempest-tossed.
How will we bear earth's beauty, visions, wonder,
Knowing they loved them in the self-same way—
Th' exulting lightning followed by deep thunder,
Th' exhilaration of each dawning day?
Banners of northern lights for them loom greener,
Waving as waves the sea-weed's streamered head;
Where bent the swaying wheat, the sunburned gleaner

Although a thousand leagues two hearts divide,
That love has joined, the gulf is not so great
As that twixt two, who, dwelling side by side
Behold between, the black abyss of Hate.

'Tis past! the pangs of love are past,
I love, I love no more;
Yet who would think I am at last
More wretched than before?

How bless'd, when first my heart was freed
From love's tormenting care,
If cold indifference did succeed,
Instead of fierce despair?

But ah! how ill is he releas'd,
Though love a tyrant reigns,
When the successor in his breast
Redoubles all his pains:

In vain attempts the woeful wight,
That would despair remove,
Its little finger has more weight,
Than all the loins of love:

The colour tones that Rousseau loved so well,
Like blast and blare of music's bursting swell,
Are flushed of dying Autumn's wizard light
When troubled day sinks into sombre night,
And trace the tragic splendour of a quest
That organ peals of stately strain suggest.
His masterpieces pierce to Nature's mood
When sullen, elemental forces brood
Pregnant of passion, charged of wrathful force—
The solemn pause ere storm clouds take their course.

Dear little Friends, ah! would I had
A score of nice cig-boxes,
Wherewith to serve your tender loves—
You pretty hens and cockses!

But here alas! all I can find;
I pray you, don't reject 'em:
Perchance anon they'll serve a turn
Your fledglings to protect 'em.

So prosper, Sweets, your springtide loves
Secure from all life's dangers:
The Gods ordain you and your chicks
To every ill be strangers!

1. It was down in a lone green valley Where the roses
bloom and fade, There lies a jealous lover In
love with a beautiful maid. One night the moon shone
brightly, The stars were shining too, And to the
maiden's cottage This jealous lover drew.

2 “Come, love, and we will wander
Down where those woods are gay.
While wandering we will ponder
And plan our wedding day.”
So arm in arm they wandered,
The night birds sang above.
This jealous lover grew angry
With the beautiful girl he loved.

3 The night was dark and dreary.

Though others think I stare with eyes unseeing,
I've loved you, Mistress mine, so dear to me,
With all my fervent rag-and-sawdust being
Since first you took me from the Christmas Tree.
I love you though my only frock you tear off;
I love you though you smear my face at meals;
I love you though you've washed my painted hair off;
I love you when you drag me by the heels;
I love you though you've sewed three buttons on me,
But most I love you when you sit upon me.

No jealous pang shall mar my pure affection;

The lips of Venus are as sweet
Though sipped within a London street,
And her rich hair
Is just as soft for lips to meet
In London air.

And Daphne's limbs are pure and white
Though darkness of a London night
Beholds them kissed,
Not skies with tints of sapphire bright
Or amethyst.

And Psyche's lips are no less red
In that two thousand years have fled
With all their flowers
Since her old namesake sweet was wed
In Southern bowers

And passion is no less divine
Though round the brows of love we twine
No amorous leaves,