Her lips were so near
That — what else could I do?
You 'll be angry, I fear,
But her lips were so near —
Well, I can't make it clear,
Or explain it to you,
But — her lips were so near
That — what else could I do?

Her hand a goblet bore for him —
Her chin and mouth curved like its rim —
So gentle yet so sure her tread,
No drop was from the goblet shed.

So gentle and so firm his hand:
A tameless steed allured his daring
And with a gesture swift, uncaring
He forced its trembling form to stand.

But when at last from her pale hand
He was to take the cup of gold,
Too heavy for them both it was:
For they so trembled like the grass,
That neither hand the other found
And on the ground the dark wine rolled.

Her hair was a waving bronze and her eyes
Deep wells that might cover a brooding soul;
And who, till he weighed it, could ever surmise
That her heart was a cinder instead of a coal?

Her hair the net of golden wire,
Wherein my heart, led by my wandering eyes,
So fast entangled is that in no wise
It can, nor will, again retire;
But rather will in that sweet bondage die
Than break one hair to gain her liberty.

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee,
The shooting stars attend thee;
And the elves also,
Whose little eyes glow
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.

No will-o'-th'-wisp mislight thee,
Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee;
But on, on thy way,
Not making a stay,
Since ghost there's none to affright thee.

Let not the dark thee cumber;
What though the moon does slumber?
The stars of the night
Will lend thee their light
Like tapers clear without number.

Then, Julia, let me woo thee,
Thus, thus to come unto me;

Her eyes? Dark pools of deepest shade,
Like sylvan lakes that lie
In some sequestered forest glade
Beneath a starry sky.

Her cheeks? The ripened chestnut's hue, —
Rich autumn's sun-kissed brown!
Caressed by sunbeams dancing through
Red leaves that flutter down.

Her form? A slender pine that sways
Before the murmuring breeze
In summer, when the south wind plays
Soft music through the trees.

Herself? A laughing, joyous sprite
Who smiles from dawn till dark,
As lovely as a summer night
And carefree as a lark.

Her eyes are like forget-me-nots,
— So loving, kind and true;
Her lips are like a pink sea-shell
— Just as the sun shines through;

Her hair is like the waving grain
— In summer's golden light;
And, best of all, her little soul
— Is, like a lily, white.

Her dimpled cheeks are pale;
She 's a lily of the vale,
Not a rose.
In a muslin or a lawn
She is fairer than the dawn
To her beaux.

Her boots are slim and neat, —
She is vain about her feet,
It is said.
She amputates her r's,
But her eyes are like the stars
Overhead.

On a balcony at night,
With a fleecy cloud of white
Round her hair —
Her grace, ah, who could paint?
She would fascinate a saint,
I declare.

'T is a matter of regret,
She 's a bit of a coquette,
Whom I sing:

Her curving bosom images
A tender-folded thought
Whose grace, too exquisite for speech,
Was in her body wrought.

The shining vale between her breasts
Is like a quiet joy,
Such as no malison can harm
Nor any shade annoy.

Yea, all her bodily beauty is
A subtle-fashioned scroll,
Where God has written visibly
Brave hintings of her soul.

HE WHO KNOWS not, and knows not that he knows not, is a fool, shun him;
He who knows not, and knows that he knows not, is a child, teach him.
He who knows, and knows not that he knows, is asleep, wake him.
He who knows, and knows that he knows, is wise, follow him.