The spring is coming by a many signs; The trays are up, the hedges broken down, That fenced the haystack, and the remnant shines Like some old antique fragment weathered brown....
But, Song, arise thee on a greater wing, Nor twitter robin-like of love, nor sing A pretty dalliance with grief - but try Some metre like a sky, Wherein to set Stars that may linger yet...
I make this rhyme of my lady and me To give me ease of my misery, Of my lady and me I make this rhyme For lovers in the after-time. And I weave its warp from day to day In a golden loom deep hid away...
Once we met, and then there came Like a Pentecostal flame, A word; And I said not, Only thought, She heard! All I never say but sing, Worshipping; Wrapt in the hidden tongue...
Two stars once on their lonely way Met in the heavenly height, And they dreamed a dream they might shine alway With undivided light; Melt into one with a breathless throe, And beam as one in the night....
Yea, let me be 'thy bachelere,' 'Tis sweeter than thy lord; How should I envy him, my dear, The lamp upon his board. Still make his little circle bright With boon of dear domestic light,...
Why did she marry him? Ah, say why! How was her fancy caught? What was the dream that he drew her by, Or was she only bought? Gave she her gold for a girlish whim, A freak of a foolish mood?...
'The daffodils are fine this year,' I said; 'O yes, but see my crocuses,' said she. And so we entered in and sat at talk Within a little parlour bowered about With garden-noises, filled with garden scent,...
Down where the unconquered river still flows on, One strong free thing within a prison's heart, I drew me with my sacred grief apart, That it might look that spacious joy upon:...
O Lady, I have looked on thee once more, Thou too hast looked on me, as thou hadst said, And though the joy was pain, the pain was bliss, Bliss that more happy lovers well may miss:...
Yea, love, I know, and I would have it thus, I know that not for us Is springtide Passion with his fire and flowers, I know this love of ours Lives not, nor yet may live,...
Love, art thou lonely to-day? Lost love that I never see, Love that, come noon or come night, Comes never to me; Love that I used to meet In the hidden past, in the land Of forbidden sweet. ...
One asked of regret, And I made reply: To have held the bird, And let it fly; To have seen the star For a moment nigh, And lost it Through a slothful eye; To have plucked the flower...