He had a falcon on his wrist,
A hound beside his knee,
A jewelled rapier at his thigh;
Quoth he: “Which may she be?
My chieftain cried: ‘Bear forth, my page,
This ring to Lady Clare;
Thou'lt know her by her sunny eyes
And golden lengths of hair.’
But here are lovely damsels three,
In glittering coif and veil,
And all have sunny locks and eyes,—
To which unfold the tale?”

Out spake the first: “O pretty page,
Thou hast a wealthy lord;
I love to see the jewels rare
Which deck thy slender sword!”

He stood beside her in the dawn—
And she his Dawn and she his Spring.
From her bright palm she fed her fawn,
Her swift eyes chased the swallow's wing;
Her restless lips, smile-haunted, cast
Shrill silver calls to hound and dove;
Her young locks wove them with the blast.
To the flushed azure shrine above
The light boughs o'er her golden head
Tossed emerald arm and blossom palm;
The perfume of their prayer was spread
On the sweet wind in breath of balm.

“Dawn of my heart,” he said, “O child,
Knit thy pure eyes a space with mine:

How moving, man and woman singing in one body!
She only hopes for divine aid, her heart out on the waves.
In the crazed anguish of the autumn wind, love's grass lies exposed;
ten thousand leagues of misty waves, the depth of her tears' traces.

I hear that the peonies are magnificent
in the famous gardens now
and that rich families will be enjoying them
until spring is almost gone.
What a shame! I too am a man who loves to look at flowers
but I am much too busy, watering my vegetable patch!

Love comes back to his vacant dwelling,—
—The old, old Love that we knew of yore!
—We see him stand by the open door,
With his great eyes sad, and his bosom swelling.

He makes as though in our arms repelling,
—He fain would lie as he lay before;—
Love comes back to his vacant dwelling,—
—The old, old Love that we knew of yore!

Ah, who shall keep us from over-spelling
—That sweet forgotten, forbidden lore!
—E'ndash as we doubt in our hearts once more,
With a rush of tears to our eyelids welling,
Love comes back to his vacant dwelling.

1. Say “au revoir,” . . . . but not “good-bye,” . . . . For parting brings . . . . a bitter
sigh; The past is gone, . . . . though mem'ry gives One clinging
thought . . . . the future lives; Our duty first, . . . . love must not
lead, . . . . What might have been, . . . . had fate decreed; 'Twere better
far . . . . . had we not met, . . . . I loved you then, . . . . I love you yet. . . .
2. The waters glide, . . . . the oars lie still, . . . . A rippling laugh, . . . a word at
will: Where angels fear, . . . . fools dare to tread, Shall live for

I just found out about love
And I like it,
I like it;
I like what love has been doing to me.
I hold you close in my arms
And I like it,
I like it;
Oh, what a wonderful future I see.
It's a one-time only,
It's a lifetime deal,
And I know it's real,
I can tell by the way that I feel.
Right now I'm livin' it up
And I like it,
I like it.
Hey, you! Give me a clue,
What's love doin' to you?
Looks like
You could be liking it, too.

From the third heaven I downe am come,
Loves powerfull Queene, to visit Rome;
To visit you, deare Latian plaines,
Glad hills, lovd walls, where soft peace raigns;
Where those Heroick Soules that are
So lovd in peace, so feard in war,
Had both a cradle and an urne.
Once more I back to earth returne,
Quitting the highest spheare for you,
And Paphos and Cythera too.
Yet would I not be idle here,
But as my selfe, Loves Queene, appeare.
I come to wake the sleeping fire
In coldest breasts, or new inspire,
And to revenge the pride of those

Who's this pretty wingèd boy?
'Tis Love, mischievous and coy.
Old as time he still is young,
Suasive is his silver tongue.
Frequently perdu he lies
In the depths of laughing eyes;
Wealth and ease and luxury,
Youth, desire and levity,—
These his close companions be.
Beauty and seductive smiles,
Agacerie, and wanton wiles
Nourish him, and honeyed kisses.
He the soul with grief can wring,
And can dreams of rapture bring.
Hopes, and fears, and dainty blisses
Are his guerdons, and his darts
Havoc make with human hearts.

The womanhood of France is travestied,
Held up to scorn
By the lewd Art of France. Yet many a heart
In France is nobler than all Gallic Art:
Love hath not wholly died,
Though love may mourn

Though sweet-lipped harlots on the Gallic stage
Still hold their own,
Sweet-lipped, sweet-bosomed, but with hearts as black
And deadly as the midnight's moonless rack,
Yet Hugo thrilled the age
With sound as of a sudden trumpet blown.

Hugo, with Shakespeare's sweetness in his eyes,
And in his heart
A strength as of the Northern waves that break,