It is n't the robins' coming
That makes the spring seem near,
It is n't the brown bees' humming
The soft air, sweet and clear,
It is n't the violets' blooming,
The buds on the dogwood tree,
It 's just my love in the garden
Singing a song for me!

It is n't the roar and rattle
Of strife that does not cease;
It is n't the daily battle
That will not give me peace.
It is n't the fame or fortune
That urges me endlessly,
It 's just my love in the garden
Singing a song for me!

When I have finished the task, dear,

Winter has chased away
Blue skies and songs of May.
She, too, is old now,
White-haired, with wrinkled brow;
But those eyes, dear eyes,
Are aglow with their light,
As when the day dies
Shine stars of the night.

Never alone,
A hand holds her own
Strong hand whose clasp
Thrills with its grasp;
And her heart is aflame
As love whispers her name.

Contented she waits
Till the great Temple gates
Are flung wide,
Then forth from the night
Steps the bride,
Forth into the light.
And then shall one say,

Set your love before me as a shield!
That, whistling by, the shadowy, wounding spear
Of the world's hate may seek my heart in vain,
Where on your breast it nestles — half in fear
Of the divine sweet silence round us twain —
Set your love before me as a shield!

Set your love before me as a light!
A candle tall: so shall I, weak, prevail
O'er darkness; pass beyond all venomed things
Into the endless Dawn, gold-starred, rose-pale,
And murmurous with whirring silver wings —
Set your love before me as a light!

A thousand books with patient art
Had lent him poise and power,
Yet love entangled brain and heart
In one brief hour!

Beyond the four seas of Eire, beyond the sunset's rim,
It lies half-forgot, in a valley deep and dim;
Like a star of fire from the skies' gold tire,
And whoso drinks the nine drops shall win his heart's desire —
At the Well o' the World's End.

What go ye seeking, seeking, seeking,
O girl white-bosomed, O girl fair and young?
" I seek the Well-water, the cool Well-water,
That my love may have love for me ever on his tongue. "

What go ye seeking, seeking, seeking,
O lad of the dreaming eyes, slender lad and tall?

Leap, my swift reindeer,
Over plain and hill!
Thou shalt browse thy fill
My love's hut a-near.
Softest mosses grow
There beneath the snow.

Ah, how brief the day,
And the road how long!
Leap thou with my song;
Let us haste away.
Here can be no rest;
Wolves this place infest.

See yon eagle rise —
Ah, that I could fly!
See yon cloud scud by —
Would I sailed the skies,
So I from above
Might behold thee, Love!

You so quickly yet
Firmly trapped me, Sweet!
So the wild deer's feet

Say not — I love, — when Beauty storms,
And takes perforce thy willing heart;
Her kindling smile each bosom warms,
Her eye is Cupid's bow and dart.
For rosy cheeks and breasts of snow,
And teeth that gleam where red lips be,
Such things will drive men daft, you know,
As long as men can think or see.

But if a passion in thee rise
For one whose outward look is bad,
Then dost thou see with partial eyes;
Then love indeed hath made thee mad.

For scented breath and laughter low,

I'm in love with a widow. I own it. I swear it!
Fill your glasses, and drink me her weal.
Ridicule, disaffection — let none of you dare it;
Real love is too precious, and my love is real.

But first, jolly friends, ere you hasten to pledge her,
Of her virtues I'll briefly descant;
Everything that is charming I'll boldly allege her —
" More virtues than virtue? " Ah, well, that I'll grant.

As a comrade, my widow's seductively sprightly;
Nature made her, and then made no more;
Hours of transport I spend in her company nightly;

Oh to be lovely in the time of flowers
When all the earth is bridal to the sun!
And to go golden, heedless of the hours,
Free to be captured, jubilant to be won!
Surely 'tis sweet upon a summer's day
To be with all things blooming in accord.
Oh to go lovely in the month of May;
To be adorable! To be adored!

Love is not lovelier than when the heart
Stirs with the bluet's first awakening
To the tenderest tip-toeing in of spring.
And love from beauty may not keep apart
When once the iris whispers to the rose —

Now I remember Guinever the queen
And Launcelot whose love was a despair.
Young Tristan's passion " for Iseult the Fair,
Elaine the good, and Doette the serene.
But oh, to look into your eyes of green
Is to see Lais langorous in her lair,
Phryne's pale lovers tangled in your hair,
Mad for her mouth while on your lips they lean.

All the perilous beauty I have known
Or glimpsed in volumes of a high romance
Move in your shadow, quicken in your glance,
Plead through your body, languish, and make moan,