The Home Book of Verse Volume Ii Part 133

THE La.s.s THAT DIED OF LOVE

Life is not dear or gay Till lovers kiss it, Love stole my life away Ere I might miss it.

In sober March I vowed I'd have no lover, Love laid me in my shroud Ere June was over.

I felt his body take My body to it, And knew my heart would break Ere I should rue it; June roses are not sad When dew-drops steep them, My moments were so glad I could not keep them.

Proud was I love had made Desire to fill me, I shut my eyes and prayed That he might kill me.

I saw new wonders wreathe The stars above him.

And oh, I could not breathe For kissing of him.

Is love too sweet to last, Too fierce to cherish, Can kisses fall too fast And lovers perish?

Who heeds since love disarms Death, ere we near him?

Within my lover's arms I did not fear him!

But since I died in sin And all unshriven, They would not let me win Into their heaven; They would not let my bier Into G.o.d's garden, But bade me tarry here And pray for pardon.

I lie and wait for grace That shall surround me, His kisses on my face, His arms around me; And sinless maids draw near To drop above me A virginal sad tear For envy of me.

Richard Middleton [1882-1911]

THE Pa.s.sION-FLOWER

My love gave me a pa.s.sion-flower.

I nursed it well--so brief its hour!

My eyelids ache, my throat is dry: He told me that it would not die.

My love and I are one, and yet Full oft my cheeks with tears are wet-- So sweet the night is and the bower!

My love gave me a pa.s.sion-flower.

So sweet! Hold fast my hands. Can G.o.d Make all this joy revert to sod, And leave to me but this for dower-- My love gave me a pa.s.sion-flower.

Margaret Fuller [1871-

NORAH

I knew his house by the poplar-trees, Green and silvery in the breeze;

"A heaven-high hedge," were the words he said, "And holly-hocks, pink and white and red...."

It seemed so far from McChesney's Hall-- Where first he told me about it all.

A long path runs inside from the gate,-- He still can take it, early or late;

But where in the world is the path for me Except the river that runs to the sea!

Zoe Akins [1886-

OF JOAN'S YOUTH

I would unto my fair restore A simple thing: The flus.h.i.+ng cheek she had before!

Out-velveting No more, no more, On our sad sh.o.r.e, The carmine grape, the moth's auroral wing.

Ah, say how winds in flooding gra.s.s Unmoor the rose; Or guileful ways the salmon pa.s.s To sea, disclose; For so, alas, With Love, alas, With fatal, fatal Love a girlhood goes.

Louise Imogen Guiney [1861-1920]

THERE'S WISDOM IN WOMEN

"On love is fair, and love is rare;" my dear one she said, "But love goes lightly over." I bowed her foolish head, And kissed her hair and laughed at her. Such a child was she; So new to love, so true to love, and she spoke so bitterly.

But there's wisdom in women, of more than they have known, And thoughts go blowing through them, are wiser than their own, Or how should my dear one, being ignorant and young, Have cried on love so bitterly, with so true a tongue?

Rupert Brooke [1887-1915]

GOETHE AND FREDERIKA

Wander, oh, wander, maiden sweet, In the fairy bower, while yet you may; See in rapture he lies at your feet; Rest on the truth of the glorious youth, Rest--for a summer day.

That great clear spirit of flickering fire You have lulled awhile in magic sleep, But you cannot fill his wide desire.

His heart is tender, his eyes are deep, His words divinely flow; But his voice and his glance are not for you; He never can be to a maiden true; Soon will he wake and go.

Well, well, 'twere a piteous thing To chain forever that strong young wing.

Let the b.u.t.terfly break for his own sweet sake The gossamer threads that have bound him; Let him shed in free flight his rainbow light, And gladden the world around him.

Short is the struggle and slight is the strain; Such a web was made to be broken, And she that wove it may weave again Or, if no power of love to bless Can heal the wound in her bosom true, It is but a lorn heart more or less, And hearts are many and poets few, So his pardon is lightly spoken.

Henry Sidgwick [1838-1901]

THE SONG OF THE KING'S MINSTREL