When summer even softly dies,
When summer winds are free,
A thousand lamps, a thousand eyes,
Shall glimmer in the sea:
O look how large, behind, below,
The lucid creatures glance and glow!
They strew with soft and fiery foam
Her streaming way from home to home.

So shines the deep, but high above,
Beyond the cloudy bars,
The old infinity of love
Looks silent from the stars:—
When parted friends no more avail
Those sleepless watchers shall not fail,
They learn her looks, they list her sighs,

The snow has gone from Zhongnan; spring is almost come
Lovely in the distance its blue colors, against the brown of the streets.
A thousand coaches, ten thousand horsemen pass down the Nine Roads;
Turns his head and looks at the mountains — not one man!

Fill me my Wine in Cristall; thus, and thus
I see't in's puris naturalibus :
Unmixt. I love to have it smirke and shine,
'Tis sin I know, 'tis sin to throtle Wine.
What Mad-man's he, that when it sparkles so,
Will coole his flames, or quench his fires with snow?

Thy Heifer, Friend, is hardly broak,
Her Neck uneasy to the Yoke;
She cannot draw the Plough, nor bear
The weight of the obliging Steer:
In flowry Meads is her Delight,
Those charm her Tast and please her sight:
Or else she flies the burning Beams
To quench her Thirst in cooler Streams;
Or with the Calves thro Pastures plays,
And wantons all her easy days:
Forbear, design no hasty Rape
On such a green, untimely Grape:
Soon ruddy Autumn will produce
Plump Clusters, ripe, and fit to use;
She now that flies, shall then pursue,

Weep, weep, ye Loves and Cupids all,
And ilka Man o' decent feelin':
My lassie's lost her wee, wee bird,
And that's a loss, ye'll ken, past healin'.

The lassie lo'ed him like her een:
The darling wee thing lo'ed the ither,
And knew and nestled to her breast,
As ony bairnie to her mither.

Her bosom was his dear, dear haunt —
So dear, he cared na lang to leave it;
He'd nae but gang his ain sma' jaunt,
And flutter piping back bereavit.

The wee thing's gane the shadowy road
That's never travelled back by ony:

I

Take back that Heart, you with such Caution give,
Take the fond valu'd Trifle back;
I hate Love-Merchants that a Trade wou'd drive;
And meanly cunning Bargains make.

II

I care not how the busy Market goes,
And scorn to Chaffer for a price:
Love does one Staple Rate on all impose,
Nor leaves it to the Traders Choice.

III

A Heart requires a Heart Unfeign'd and True,

Lo, my loved is dying, and the call
Is come that I must die,
All the leaves are dying, all
Dying, drifting by.
Every leaf is lonely in its fall,
Every flower has its speck and stain;
The birds from hedge and tree
Lisp mournfully,
And the great reconciliation of this pain
Lies in the full, soft rain.

Who is this? An almoner
By the lovely stoop of her,
By her smiling, by her quick
Footstep as she sought the sick.
'Tis a lovely almoner.
But I ask not speech with her;
I am going to my grave-bed,
Something from my heart there smote —
" Coins for Charon's ferry-boat,
Coins, give me coins for my dead."

Fiercely did I press my tolls,
And the figure changed its pace,
Drew a veil across the face,
Left me with my pagan-tongue:
And a whispering came along —
" I am Mary of the Holy Souls."

I did not love him for myself alone:
I loved him that he loved my dearest love.
O God, no blasphemy
It is to feel we loved in trinity,
To tell Thee that I loved him as Thy Dove
Is loved, and is Thy own,
That comforted the moan
Of Thy Beloved, when earth could give no balm
And in Thy Presence makes His tenderest calm.

So I possess this creature of Love's flame,
So loving what I love he lives from me;
Not white, a thing of fire,
Of seraph plumed limbs and one desire,
That is my heart's own, and shall ever be:
An animal — with aim

Love rises up some days
From a blue couch of light
Upon the summer sky;
He wakes, and waking plays
With beams and dewdrops white;
His laugh is like the sunniest rain,
And patters through his voice;
He is so lovely, tolerant, and sane,
That the heart questions why
It doth not, every hour it beats, rejoice.

Yet sometimes Love awakes
On a black, hellish bed,
And rises up as hate:
He drinks the hurtful lakes,
He joys to toss and spread
Sparkles of pitchy, rankling flame,
He joys to play with death;