When spring days come and I have naught to do,
I love to rest beneath some spreading tree,
And gaze aloft into the dreamy blue
And think of all the wonders sweet and true
A gracious Father hath prepared for me —
The earth all fair upon whose verdant breast
I lie at rest;
The freshness of the morn, the joyous birds,
The tuneful lowing of the distant herds;
The lovely mysteries
Of budding trees;
The dawning beauties of the garden-close,
The violet, the daffodill, the rose;
The misty hills now greening in the sun;

They'll doubtless teach the maiden wise
How best to use her sparkling eyes,
And with a glance flashed through the dark
Unerringly to hit the mark.
They'll teach her, natheless, how to say
Her Lover " No " in such a way
That he'll discern in his distress
A " No " is oft a form of " Yes . "

They'll take a maiden free of guile
And teach her clearly how to smile
Flirtatiously, yet innocent
Of consequences consequent.
They'll lecture her on " Methods Sure
To hold a Wavering Swain Secure, "
And all the other sundry arts

Yet many poems have been written
Because the poet was unsmitten;
And many a sonnet has been fashioned
Because the bard was love-impassioned;
And many a lyric has been lyred
Because of loves that have expired.

Be passion dead, unborn, or hot,
Some people write and some do not.

How shallow is this mere that gleams!
Its depth of blue is from the skies,
And from a distant sun the dreams
And lovely light within your eyes.

We deem our love so infinite
Because the Lord is everywhere,
And love awakening is made bright
And bathed in that diviner air.

We go on our enchanted way
And deem our hours immortal hours,
Who are but shadow kings that play
With mirrored majesties and powers.

Love will live while the pale stars glow, while the world shall last,
On the present hopes, and in hours of woe, on a dreamy past,
Love will live, while the flowers bloom, and the meadows wave;
Nor yet be quenched by the charnel tomb — the ghastly grave;
For o'er the tomb and the silver stars, to the gates above
The soul will seek in the great Afar the Endless Love.

Do you not feel the white glow in your breast, my bird?
That is the flame of love I send to you from afar:
Not a wafted kiss, hardly a whispered word,
But love itself that flies as a white-winged star.

Let it dwell there, let it rest there, at home in your heart:
Wafted on winds of gold, it is Love itself, the Dove.
Not the god whose arrows wounded with bitter smart,
Nor the purple-fiery birds of death and love.

Do not ask for the hands of love or love's soft eyes:
They give less than love who give all, giving what wanes.

I did not deem it half so sweet
To feel thy gentle hand,
As in a dream thy soul to greet
Across wide leagues of land.

Untouched more near to draw to you
Where, amid radiant skies,
Glimmered thy plumes of iris hue,
My Bird of Paradise.

Let me dream only with my heart,
Love first, and after see:
Know thy diviner counterpart
Before I kneel to thee.

So in thy motions all expressed
Thy angel I may view:
I shall not on thy beauty rest,
But beauty's self in you.

Tell me, Lydia, why you ruin
Sybaris with your burning love?
Once he was a discus bruin;
Once he loved the sun above.

Soft the sinew, gone the fibre
Of his green, athletic youth;
Now he fears the yellow Tiber —
He who might have rivalled Ruth!

Sulks he as the son of Thetis
At the Trojan falling did;
This the burden of my treatise:
Why don't you lay off him, Lyd?

Tell me, Lydia, why you ruin
Sybaris with your burning love?
Once he was a discus bruin;
Once he loved the sun above.

I cannot see you in the light
Or find you in the day,
For when the sun springs up at dawn
I think you slip away.

I wait until the night is come
To pass beyond the veil,
And then I find you in the land
Of the unuttered tale.

Then gazing out across the night
I see with glad surmise
The shadows of your loosened hair,
The depth of your grave eyes.

She dressed her well in her bodice brown
And well in her gown of gray.
" Off am I to my own love's town
A hundred miles away —
And will not tire by brough or brae
And will walk on the soft-floored sea:
For my love is his from day to day —
But, oh! does my love love me?

Has his strong arm a place for my head?
Will his strong hand feel my breast?
Fine soft linen and a bridal bed,
For that's what a girl loves best!

Word or warning not mine to send
Of the journey so soon to be:
Though my love is his to the world's end.