Blue eyes, gray eyes,
All the eyes that be,
Hold within their changing depths
Wealth of charm to me.

Dark-eyed maid, of moment's fancy,
Gay as stars above;
Is it you that I adore,
Or is it Love I love?

If you loved me I could trust you to your fancy's furthest bound
While the sun shone and the wind blew, and the world went round,
To the utmost of the meshes of the devil's strongest net . . .
If you loved me, if you loved me--but you do not love me yet!

I love you--and I cannot trust you further than the door!
But winds and worlds and seasons change, and you will love me more
And more--until I trust you, dear, as women do trust men -
I shall trust you, I shall trust you, but I shall not love you then!

O mia Luna! Porta mi fortuna!
(You must say it nine times, curtseying, and then wish.)
In rose-pale, fading blue of twilight sky,
See, the new moon's thin crescent shining clear;
Nine times I'll curtsey murmuring mystic words, -
And wish good fortune to our love, my dear.

Juliet will never rise
In her passion's paradise;
Dust is in her ears and eyes.
And time too, as all men know,
Has put by, with beauty's woe,
What remains of Romeo.
In that grave within the green
Since the dawn of death was seen
Nothing has been changed, I ween;
Nor shall their praise be unsown,
Like a bud each year new-blown
While Verona's name is known;
And the hearts of men shall come
To where Love has made his home
In their beauty's martyrdom.
Ah! the two that are so one
Since the dream of life was done: —

In the spring moonlight the lord of love
Thro' the amorous ravel's maze doth move;
The crown of love love's raptures proves;
For Radha his amorous darling moves,
Radha the ruby of ravishing girls
With him bathed in love's moonlight whirls.
And all the merry maidens with rapture
Dancing together the light winds capture
And the bracelets speak with a ravishing cry.
And the murmur of waist -bells rises high-
Meanwhile rapture -waking string
Ripest of strains the sonata of spring
That lover and lord of love- languid notes

As to her child a mother calls,
'Come to me, child; come near!'
Calling, in silent intervals,
The Master's voice I hear.

But does he call me verily?
To have me does he care?
Why should he seek my poverty,
My selfishness so bare?

The dear voice makes his gladness brim,
But not a child can know
Why that large woman cares for him,
Why she should love him so!

Lord, to thy call of me I bow,
Obey like Abraham:
Thou lov'st me because thou art thou,
And I am what I am!

Doubt whispers,
Thou art such a blot

How like her! But 'tis she herself,
Comes up the crowded street,
How little did I think, the morn,
My only love to meet!

Whose else that motion and that mien?
Whose else that airy tread?
For one strange moment I forgot
My only love was dead.

In the meadow - what in the meadow?
Bluebells, buttercups, meadowsweet,
And fairy rings for the children's feet
In the meadow.
In the garden - what in the garden?
Jacob's-ladder and Solomon's-seal,
And Love-lies-bleeding beside All-heal
In the garden.

What sighed the Forest to the nest?
'So young, so old,
Love,
Help me to mold
This life I hold.'
What said the bird,
That harked and heard?
'Below, above,
Love, love is best.
Take heed, my Life, and quit thy quest.
The meaning of Love is rest.'
So spake the bird.
What cried the Nightwind to the trees?
'Thou dream of Earth,
Love,
Make me of worth
In death and birth!'
What said the wood
Stark-still that stood?
'Below, above,
Give me increase.
Take heed, my Heart! thy sighings cease.

In the dim counties
we take the long calm
Lilting no haziness,
sequel or psalm.

The little street wenches,
The holy and clean,
Live as good neighbours live
under the green.

Malice of sunbeam or
menace of moon
Piping shall leave us
no taste of a tune.

In the dim counties
the eyelids are dumb,
To the lean citizens
Love cannot come.

Love in the yellowing,
Love at the turn,
Love o' the cooing lip—
how should he burn?

The little street wenches,
the callous, unclean