My Love she is a lowly but sweet flower,
And I would wear her in my breast, for she
Is full of fragrance, and such modesty
That I ev'n sanctify that precious hour,
When first my eyes her worshippers became.
He, who hath mark'd the opening rose in spring,
Hath seen but portion small of her I sing.
For Fortune if I struggle, or for Fame,
'Tis that, unworthy, I may worthy be
Of her, the maiden with the dark black hair,
And darker eyes. My only wish to share
The sunless sums low sunk beneath the sea,

The tears I shed must ever fall,
I mourn not for an absent swain;
For thoughts may past delights recall,
And parted lovers meet again.
I weep not for the silent dead,
Their toils are past, their sorrows o'er;
And those they loved their steps shall tread,
And death shall join to part no more.

Though boundless oceans roll'd between,
If certain that his heart is near,
A conscious transport glads each scene,
Soft is the sigh, and sweet the tear.
E'en when by death's cold hand remov'd,
We mourn the tenant of the tomb,

The bugling of the summer wind
Is sweet upon the hill:
I love to hear its eddies
The heather-crannies fill.

It plays upon the bracken
A blithe fanfarronade:
And thro' the moss-cups whistleth
" The Fairy Raid. "

It leaps from birch to rowan,
And laugheth long and loud,
Then with a spring is vanished,
And rideth on a cloud!

Low laughing, blithely scorning —
Beware, beware, of flaming wings,
Love hunts thee down the morning!

His white feet dip i' the hillside springs,
He mocks thy flying terror!
The woodland with his laughter rings!

He'll make thee his slave to follow,
Nor shall he forgive thee, maid, thine error,
Who spied thee hid in the hollow.

Too late, too late the warning!
Behold the flash of flaming wings —
Love hath thee now i' the morning!

From oversea—
Violets for memories,
I send to thee;

Let them bear thoughts of me,
With pleasant memories
To touch the heart of thee,
Far oversea.

A little way it is for love to flee,
Love wing'd with memories,
Hither to thither overseas

'T IS a child of phansie's getting,
Brought up between hope and fear,
Fed with smiles, grown by uniting
Strong, and so kept by desire;

'Tis a perpetual vestal fire
Never dying,
Whose smoak like incense doth aspire
Upwards flying.

'Tis a soft magnetique stone
Attracting hearts by sympathie,
Binding up close two souls in one,
Both discoursing secretlie:

'Tis the true Gordian knot that tyes
Yet ne'er unbinds,
Fixing thus two lovers eyes
As wel as mindes.

'Tis the sphere's heavenly harmonie

" Trust love even if it brings sorrow.
Do not close up your heart. "
" Ah no, my friend, your words are dark, I cannot understand them. "

" The heart is only for giving away with a tear and a song, my love. "
" Ah no, my friend, your words are dark, I cannot understand them. "

" Pleasure is frail like a dewdrop, while it laughs it dies.
But sorrow is strong and abiding. Let sorrowful love wake in your eyes. "
" Ah no, my friend, your words are dark, I cannot understand them. "

In vain does Hymen, with religious vows
Oblige his slaves to wear his chains with ease;
A privilege alone that Love allows,
'Tis Love alone can make our fetters please.

The angry tyrant lays his yoke on all,
Yet in his fiercest rage is charming still;
Officious Hymen comes whene'er we call,
But haughty Love comes only when he will.

All love, at first, like gen'rous wine,
Ferments and frets, until 'tis fine;
But when 'tis settled on the lee,
And from th' impurer matter free,
Becomes the richer still, the older,
And proves the pleasanter, the colder.
Love is too great a happiness
For wretched mortals to possess:
For, could it hold inviolate
Against those cruelties of Fate,
Which all felicities below
By rigid laws are subject to,
It would become a bliss too high
For perishing mortality,
Translate to earth the joys above;
For nothing goes to Heaven but love.

In a grove of ilex
Of oak and of chestnut,
Far on the sunswept
Heights of Tusculum,
There groweth a blossom,
A snow-white bloom,
Which many have heard of,
But few have seen.
Oft bright as the morning,
Oft pale as moonlight,
There in the greenness,
In shadow and sunshine
It grows, awaiting
The hand that shall pluck it:
For this blossom springeth
From the heart of a poet
And of her who loved him
In the long ago,
Here on the sunswept
Heights of Tusculum.
And them it awaiteth,
Deep lovers only,