Alone at last we shall be. Then thine eyes
Shall be the light that lights us on our way;
Thy face the glory of the perfect day;
Thy beauty the soft splendour of sunrise.
All other loves shall fade. Far past us flies
Sorrow, a bird on pinions gaunt and grey.
The earthly sun is setting, but its ray
Is faint by that great fire that Love supplies.

Alone, alone, no mortal near us—air
Above us and around us: all the scars
Of life are healing; now no lingering care
With sword perverse enfeebles us and mars.
I am alone with thee, thou woman fair,—

Nay, who knows that? Who knows what strength may be
Within the spirit of love? What untried things
Behind death's thunder-dark yet love-sweet wings?
What might of passionate singing in the sea
Of death that shall encompass you and me
When envious Time the final parting brings?
Oh that strange parting which so racks and wrings
The spirit, may join two spirits eternally.

“We cannot save from death.”—Nay, who knows aught
Of what the deathless spirit of love can do?
God who spreads out the eternal ocean's blue

I twine the silent mists within my hair
And mark the morning from the mountain-peak,
While round me the sonorous thunders speak
And strange light quivers through the thin pure air.
For thee, sweetheart, this valley-rose is fair,—
Fair as thine own soft slothful recreant cheek;
Thee the gay valley-sunshine loves to seek:
Thou wouldst not the steep flowerless high paths dare.

And yet I love thee! though thou art so far
Away from me, I love thee, sweetheart mine!
Far down the valley thy bright soul doth shine,

You eager ask me Delia's name,
What nymph I love so well?
So pure, so delicate my flame,
I cannot bear to tell:

Then cease with importuning art
To urge me to declare
The dearest secret of my heart—
Her name is written there.

I fell in love with a fair maid
And she to love was not afraid;
Our lips made answer, kiss for kiss,
And soon we reached love's perfect bliss.

But who I am and who is she,
And how we came thus to agree,
All that is still beneath the rose—
Venus alone our secret knows.

Not by standing at their graves and weeping
Win we audience of the ghostly throng:
Those we left beneath the green grass sleeping
Need not tears it may be, only song.

Not by ceaseless groans and bitter anguish
Shall we reach their hearts and bring them nigh:
Not by wringing idle hands that languish;
Not by watching starless wastes of sky.

Where the strong sun gilds the morning mountains,
Where the ceaseless crystal waters leap
Laughing from the depths of rainbow fountains,
There are those we left alone, asleep.

Oh Thou! whose sacred Light in Darkness beam'd!
Whose Grace supports us—and whose Love redeem'd!—
Complete within my soul thy blest design,
And make my struggling heart for ever Thine?

My True-love hath no wealth they say;
But when they do, I tell them nay,—
For she hath wealth of golden hair,
Shot through with shafts from Delos' bow,
That shines about her shoulders rare.
Like sunlight on new driven snow.

My True-love hath no wealth they say;
But when they do, I tell them nay,—
For she hath eyes so soft and bright,
So deep the light that in them lies,
That stars in heaven would lose their light
Ashine beside my True-love's eyes.

My True-love hath no wealth they say;
But when they do, I tell them nay,—

I am a bohemian maid,
Blue eyed, fair and airy;
Would you know my name? my name
Is no name but Mary.

W HAT'S to you if I have fled,
Fled to love's embraces,
Eaten hips of eglantine,
Slept in thorny places.

W HAT'S to you, if I allow
Youths of love to chatter;
Let them rattle at my door,
Surely 'tis no matter!

I WILL marry—wherefore talk—
Wherefore talk, my mother;
Am I yet a year too young?
Must I wait another?

No! I'm young—and I am fair—
Gay—blue-eyed and airy—
Would you know the maiden's name,

Two things are there that I love most in this world and in myself;
In myself my two eyes, and in this world all fair creatures.
From the perfume of their tresses I am as one distracted;
Ever will he that has been snake-bitten be thus beside himself.
Looking at the beauty of fair women I have found my God,
Short is the distance between metaphor and fact.
When I gaze at a lovely face my eyes are never sated,
Every hair upon my head becomes as though an eye with looking.
Those of evil nature know nothing of love's troubles;