Young England, what is then become of Old Of dear Old England? Think they she is dead, Dead to the very name? Presumption fed On empty air! That name will keep its hold In the true filial bosom's inmost fold...
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...
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,...
'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,...
Your heart has trembled to my tongue, Your hands in mine have lain, Your thought to me has leaned and clung, Again and yet again, My dear, Again and yet again. ...
You that were Half my life ere life was mine; You that on my shape the sign Set of yours; You that my young lips did kiss When your kiss summed up my bliss.... Ah, once more...
You will hear thunder and remember me, And think: she wanted storms. The rim Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson, And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire. ...
'Now, welcome, welcome, masters mine, Thrice welcome to the noble chase, Nor earthly sport, nor sport divine, Can take such honourable place.' - Ballad of the Wild Huntsman. (Free Translation.)