Love and my selfe (beleeve me) on a day
At childish Push-pin (for our sport) did play:
I put, he pusht, and heedless of my skin,
Love prickt my finger with a golden pin:
Since which, it festers so, that I can prove
'T was but a trick to poyson me with love:
Little the wound was; greater was the smart;
The finger bled, but burnt was all my heart.

When joy in Love's dear eyes
Kisses our own with smiles,
Comes music of sweet bells
That ringing far away,
Laugh heavens into the heart;
But when they cease,
The spacious halls of memory
Are thrilled with echoes of a love
Too strong for speech;
The dim harmonious silences
Blush to a crimson light;
Faith becomes strangely young,
Wisdom matures, and Love
Finds immortality.

In a lovely garden walking
Two lovers went hand in hand;
Two wan, worn figures, talking
They sat in the flowery land.

On the cheek they kissed one another,
On the mouth with sweet refrain;
Fast held they each the other.
And were young and well again.

Two little bells rang shrilly—
The dream went with the hour:
She lay in the cloister stilly,
He far in the dungeon-tower!

Cr[omek] loves artists as he loves his Meat
[Cr—] He loves the Art but tis the Art to Cheat

Hark thou, my Lesbia, there be none existent
Can truly say she hath been loved by me
As thou hast been. No faith is more consistent
Than that which V. Catullus gives to thee.

How reasonless the state of an emotion!
For wert thou faultless, perfect, and sublime,
I could not like thee; nor would my devotion
And love be less wert thou the Queen of Crime.

Tell me not, friend, you are unkind,
If ink and books laid by,
You turn up in a uniform
Looking all smart and spry.

I thought your ink one horrid smudge,
Your books one pile of trash,
And with less fear of smear embrace
A sword, a belt, a sash.

Yet this inconstancy forgive,
Though gold lace I adore,
I could not love the lace so much
Loved I not Lovelace more.

There are who say we are but dust,
We may be soon, but are not yet,
Nor should be while in Love we trust
And never what he taught forget.

Ah, do not say you love me as a rose,
A rose that blossoms for a day and dies,
But rather as a tranquil, guiding star
That lights the evening skies.

Ah, do not say you love me as a jewel,
A jewel,—a tinseled trinket, trivial, vain;
But rather as a rainbow shining through
A world of wailing rain.

Ah, do not say you love me as the spring,
The spring that lingers all too brief a time,
But rather as a happy, sun-winged song
Of sweet, immortal rhyme.

Who loves a tree he loves the life that springs in star and clod;
He loves the love that gilds the clouds and greens the April sod;
He loves the Wide Beneficence. His soul takes hold on God.

A tree is one of nature's words, a word of peace to man,
A word that tells of central strength from whence all things began,
A word to preach tranquillity to all our restless clan.

Ah, bare must be the shadeless ways, and bleak the path must be,
Of him who, having open eyes, has never learned to see,
And so has never learned to love the beauty of a tree.

GOOD-NIGHT ! good-night! for the day is done,
And the shadow-ships lie long
Where the moon shines dim o'er the curved sea's rim,
And the wild wind sings its song.

The wild wind sings to the sea, my love—
Sing, heart of my heart, to me,
While the waves' dull roar on the sounding shore
Fills up the melody;

Till I rest in peace in thine arms, my love;
Till slumber has loosed the bars,
And my thought flies forth, as a gull to the north,
To wander among the stars.