White, when I saw you last, with eyes as clear
As ocean in the summer over sand,
Your face was, — when I pressed your cold sweet hand.
I did not know it was the last time, dear,
And so another sonnet-pressure here
I send, — the last wave washed upon the strand, —
Last cry from darkness towards the sunlit land, —
Last petal of the last rose of the year.

The last long wailing of a harpsichord, —
Last struggle, last spent sobbing, of a flute, —
Last broken iridescence of a lute, —
Last gleam and snapping of a singer's sword;

I dreamed a wonderful dream of a flower.
On the hill-side green it grew:
But the tongue would fail, nor has brush the power
To paint that flower for you.
It scented the hill-side far and wide,
And scented the fields of corn:
Its odour was sweet through the tall gold wheat,
And sweet on the airs of morn.
And when I woke, I marvelled:
My soul seemed breathing still
A fragrance never lavished
On mortal grove or hill.

And never, till love came down from above
With its rapture and despair,
Did I know what it meant, — nor God's intent

Amang folyis ane grit folye I find:
Quhan that ane man, past fyftie yeir of age,
Can in his vane consait [eir] grow sa blind
As for to join himself in maryage
With ane young lass, quhais blude is in ane rage;
Thinkand that he may serve hir appetyte;
Quhilk gif he fail, than will scho him dispyte.

Still ageit men sould jois in moral talis;
And nocht in tailis. For folye is to mary,
Fra tyme that bayth thair strenth and nature falis;
And tak ane wyf to bring thameself in tarye.
For fresche Maii, and cauld January,

We have to give her eyes, and hearts, and hands,
Sweet poet-brothers, lovers of my soul;
We have to crown her with the living whole
Of power that each in his degree commands.
Silent and smiling before each she stands,
Ready to lay cool palms upon his brow
If only he will swear allegiance now,
Renouncing love of home, and life, and lands,
Renouncing popularity and praise
And great laudation of most petty minds
And all the vulgar hubbub of the ways; —
The man that doth this thing most surely finds

If only a single Rose is left,
Why should the Summer pine?
A blade of grass in a rocky cleft;
A single star to shine.
— Why should I sorrow if all be lost,
If only thou art mine?

If only a single Blue-bell gleams
Bright on the barren heath,
Still of that flower the Summer dreams,
Not of his August wreath.
— Why should I sorrow, if thou art mine,
Love, beyond change and death?

Have mercy upon me, O Trinity who brought sight to the eye of the blind man; to make grass grow through the rock is more difficult, O God — do not, O Creator, allow me to be without children. You put blossom through the top of the tree, O great Father (unhappy the man who does not understand); how could it be harder for you to give me children than to bring blossom through the top of these same trees, O Creator?

The bloom is fair upon the hawthorn hedges;
The throstles sing from many a budding spray;
Blue ripples laugh along the river-edges;
The blue sky seems to whisper, " It is May! "
And yet the thought of tawny-leaved September
Dismays the fancy with a touch of gloom:
Aye, and a mem'ry of old wild November,
Whose storm-winds trumpet forth pale Autumn's doom.

When love is at its sweetest, in its season,
When it is full of summer joy and mirth,
There sometimes comes the thought, " In love is treason:
Not always Summer sways the green-robed earth. "

The fairest things, alas! are ever fleetest;
How glad, and yet how short, is sunny May:
For just one hour the rose is at its sweetest;
The violet's perfume lasts but for a day.
For some short weeks the waves are at their brightest;
The stars grow pale within the morning air:
One day the chestnut-bloom is at its whitest —
The next day sees it wither and despair.

And so with love. — It has its perfect splendour,
Its summer glory, when the twain hearts meet:
Its perfect hour of June, its moment tender,

Ye, that sumtym hes bene weil stakit,
Thoch of your geir sum be inlakit,
And yourself into troubil brocht;
Of this fals warld tak never thocht.

To sum thair is bot litle left;
Bot, with grit wrang, ar planelie reft
With devil's lyms, that never docht.
Of this fals warld yit tak na thocht.

Of houshold grayth sum richt skant war
With uther's geir now planeist ar,
Better nor ever thair faders bocht.
Of this fals warld yit tak na thocht.

To reif their neichbour few now rakis,
For feir of God; bot daylie takis

I see in loue some farther fetch there is,
Than reason can reueale to me that would:
Accuse the cause that makes me think amis,
And finde the fault of such vntempred mould.
Of sundry workes doe diuers wonders growe,
Yet skill shewes why, and how they should be so.

I see the Sunne both moue, and melt, and chaunge,
At once both dry and dew the dustie sande:
Yet are the raging stormes of loue so straunge,
As I forbeare the cause to vnderstande.
Except I should impute it to the wurst,
And curse the kinde that neuer Louer durst.