Somer is comen with love to toune,
With blostme, and with brides roune.
The note of hasel springeth,
The dewes darkneth in the dale.
For longing of the nightegale,
Thes foweles murye singeth.

Ic herde a strif bitweyes two —
That on of wele, that other of wo:
Bitwene two ifere.
That on hereth wimmen that hoe beth hende,

That other hem wole with mighte shende.
That strif ye mowen ihere.

The nightingale is on by nome
That wol shilden hem from shome,
Of skathe hoe wole hem skere;
The threstelcok hem kepeth ay,

Cast up a wreck by Fortune's tide,
The ebbing wave in this lone bay
Has left me by the ocean's side
Mouldering in sure and slow decay;
Love, Hope, Fame, Power, have past away
And with them Joy and Grief and Pride
I live but in my thoughts, and they
Are of the things that long have died!

Who claims that death is one cold, endless sleep,
Has never felt love's gladness in his soul, —
Has never made a woman's heart his goal,
Nor from red lips a harvest tried to reap.
Why should we love if graves are made to keep
Body and spirit in their calm control,
While waves of pulseless slumber o'er us roll,
And centuries unheeded by us sweep!
Who solves the mystery held by one sweet kiss, —
Who reads the song that shines in brilliant eyes, —
Who gathers wisdom from warm, fragrant breath, —

I

Love came to me one Summer day
Amid the mounds of fragrant hay,
Laughed in my face, and went his way.

II

Again, when Autumn woods aflame
With gold and scarlet were, he came,
And whispered low a dainty name.

III

And when the hills grew white with snow,
And high north winds began to blow,
He passed me by with footsteps slow.

IV

And now I wonder, will he bring
His priceless gift when robins sing,
And blossoms fleck the path of Spring?

V

For by the roadway to his gate,

I SANG these songs, by Helen's love made blind,
That fated month that oped my Prince's grave!
Great as his sceptre was, it could not save
C HARLES from the debt we owe to human kind.

Death stood on one side. Lord of heart and mind,
Love ruled me from the other side, and drave
Such torment through my veins, no thought I gave
Even to my King — in my own pain confined.

Now in my heart two different griefs make one:
My Lady's coldness, and the shortened years
Of him I worshipped for his noble fame.

Take thou this rose, sweet even as thou art,
Thou rose of roses rarest, loveliest,
Thou flower of freshest flowers, whose fragrance blest
Enwraps me, ravished from myself apart.

Take thou this rose, and with it take my heart,
My heart that hath no wings, unto thy breast,
So constant that its faith stands manifest,
Though wounded sore with many a cruel dart.

The rose and I are diverse in one thing:
Each morning's rose at eve lies perishing,
While countless mornings see my love new-born

( MARCHING SONG )

March along, march along, with a song
For the land of the brave and the free.
Let the people throng to save from wrong
The world and the world to be,
The better world to be.

Chorus:
On, on, by dark or dawn,
'Neath the constellation
Of a mighty nation;

I DRAGGED my life along with sullen sighs
In heaviness of body and of soul,
Knowing not yet the Muse's high control
And honor that she brings her votaries,

Until the hour I loved you. Then your eyes
Became my guide to lead to virtue's goal,
Where I might win that knowledge fair and whole
Which by true loving makes men nobly wise.

O love, my all, if aught of good I do,
If worthily of your dear eyes I write,
You are the cause, yours is the potency.

My perfect grace comes ever but from you,

My chosen one — you to whom I have said,
" You and you only ever please my heart " —
I look deep in your eyes, and heal the smart
That long love-yearning hath engendered.

My hunger grows the more through being fed;
But Love, who wasteth not his perfect art
On the unworthy, with each deeper dart
Brings not the pain I thought, but joy instead,

And health from my heart all pain away.
Love is not pain but gain. Though bitter-sweet,
Less bitter 'tis than sweet, less ill than good.

Carnations and lilies are hueless
When set by the face of my fair,
And fine-woven gold is but worthless
If weighed with the wealth of her hair;
Through arches of coral passes
Her laughter that banisheth care,
And flowers spring fresh 'mongst the grasses
Wherever her feet may fare.