Venus unto the Gods a sute did move,
That since she was of love the godess stil'd
She only might the pouer have of love,
And nott as now a partner with her child,

The cause to this which stird the Godess milde
Was that of late her servant faulse did prove
Hurt as she sayd afresh by Cupid wilde,
And to a Nimph his passions did remove;

Or els that they would eyes unto him give
That hee might see, how hee his shafts did drive;
This they deny'd: For if hee blind did ill

What would hee seeing? Butt thus much they did

And we have met but twice or thrice!—
Three times enough to make me love!—
I praised your hair once; then your glove;
Your eyes; your gown;—you were like ice;
And yet this might suffice, my love,
And yet this might suffice.

St. John hath told me what to do:
To search and find the ferns that grow
The fern seed that the faeries know;
Then sprinkle fern seed in my shoe,
And haunt the steps of you, my dear,
And haunt the steps of you.

You'll see the poppy pods dip here;
The bow-ball of the thistle slip,

O VAGRANT Love! do you come this way?
I hear you knock at the long-closed door
That turned too oft on its hinge before—
I am stronger now; I can say you Nay.

The vague, sweet smile on your lips to-day,
Its meaning and magic I know of yore:
O vagrant Love, do you come this way?
I hear your knock at the long-closed door.

But why your summons should I obey?
I listened once till my heart grew sore—
Shall I listen again, and again deplore?
Nay! Autumn must ever be wiser than May—
And the more we welcome the more you betray—

Happy : yea, happy for ever and aye!
Scarlet bursts through the eastern gray
And the night is past;
For a woman's lips and a woman's hair,
And the soul of her womanhood, wonderful, fair,
Are mine at last.

Dawn was near, but no whisper told
Why the stars went out and the world grew cold
As the void above;
When suddenly out of the darkness sprang
My passionate rose, and the whole world sang
Of love, of love.

Now happy, yea, happy for ever I stand,
The rose of passion within my hand,
And the day may close

Say, what is the spell, when her fledgelings are cheeping,
That lures the bird home to her nest?
Or wakes the tired mother, whose infant is weeping,
To cuddle and croon it to rest?
What's the magic that charms the glad babe in her arms,
Till it coos with the voice of the dove?
'Tis a secret, and so let us whisper it low—
And the name of the secret is Love!
For I think it is Love,
For I feel it is Love,
For I'm sure it is nothing but Love!

Say, whence is the voice that, when anger is burning,
Bids the whirl of the tempest to cease?

Out of the day-glare, out of all uproar,
Hurrying in ways disquieted, bring me
To silence, and earth's ancient peace restore,
That with profounder vision I may see.
In dew-baptizing dimness let me lose
Tired thoughts; dispeople the world-haunted mind,
With burning of interior fire refined;
Cleanse all my sense: then, Love, mine eyes unclose.

Let it be dawn, and such low light increase,
As when from darkness pure the hills emerge;
And solemn foliage trembles through its peace
As with an ecstasy; and round the verge
Of solitary coppices cold flowers

I loved my friend.
He went away from me.
There's nothing more to say.
The poem ends,
Soft as it began,—
I loved my friend.

Belovèd, till the day break,
Leave wide the little door;
And bless, to lack and longing,
Our brimming more-and-more.

If love a scanted portion,
That we should hoard thereof?
Oh, call unto the deserts,
Belovèd and my Love!

I'm going to laugh, I'm going to laugh,
I'm going to laugh,
Ha-ha!
E'en though the harvest be but chaff,
I'm going to laugh,
Ha-ha!
For laughter fills the heart with joy,
And kills the troubles that annoy,
And brings to age hopes of the boy—
Ha-ha!

I'm going to sing, I'm going to sing,
I'm going to sing,
Tra-la!
In face of sneer, and jeer, and fling,
I'm going to sing,
Tra-la!
For numbers rout the hosts of wrong,
And fill the spirit with a throng
Of joyous thoughts the whole day long—
Tra-la!

No lovelier song was ever heard
Than the notes of the Southern Mocking-Bird
When leaf and blossom are wet with dew
And the wind breathes low the long night through.
O music for grief! It comes like a song
From a voice in the stars; and all night long
The notes flow. But you must live in the South,
Where the clear moon kisses with large cool mouth
The land she loves, in the secret of night,
To hear such music—the soul-delight
Of the Moon-Loved Land.

When gentle twilight softly closes
The door of day, and the sun-fed roses