By Barada the citron now
Displays its cloud of bloom;
By Barada the almond bough
Is like a lovely loom;
And with a tide of gold unrolled
The meadows sweep and swell;
By Barada, by Barada,
Behold the asphodel!

By Barada pomegranate fires
With hues of sunset vie;
By Barada the lilt of lyres
Upon the wind goes by;
And in the vale the nightingale
Lifts its immortal tune,
By Barada, by Barada,
Beneath the sun and moon!

By Barada from crest to crest
Red gleams the cinnabar;
By Barada on night's blue breast

Here are roses red,
For their fragrance love them:
When you bend your head
Tenderly above them,
To your own lips, sweet,
Lift them up and hold them
While their lips repeat
What my heart has told them.

Grant them of your grace,
With your beauty bless them,
Fold them to your face,
Kiss them, and caress them.
Brief their day, and so
Only gladness give them,
Yours the joy to know
Love that shall outlive them.

Above the sea in splendor
The new moon hangs alone,
A silver crescent slender
Set in a sapphire zone;
Around me breathe the tender,
Sweet zephyrs of the south:
Night will not let
My heart forget
Her kisses and her mouth.

The loose sails idly swinging,
The ship lights' glow and gleam,
The bell-buoys' muffled ringing,
Drive all my thoughts to dream, —
To dream of her voice singing
The songs I love the best:
Night will not let
My heart forget
Where she has made her nest!

O Love, where art thou biding

One summer afternoon
We strangled Love, and soon
There where my love had been,
Upon the couch, was Sin.

The face is still the same,
But an unholy flame
Gleams in her eyes that serves
To whip my angry nerves.

Upon affection's tomb
Miasmic blossoms bloom.
Whims monstrous and perverse
Those girlish lips rehearse.

Her body seems the shrine
Of some strange Messaline,
And all the lusts of men
That tortured Magdalen.

And when beside me stirs
That soft white form of hers,
A voice cries out to me:

I NEVER know why 't is I love thee so:
I do not think 't is that thine eyes for me
Grow bright as sudden sunshine on the sea;
Nor for thy rose-leaf lips, or breast of snow,
Or voice like quiet waters where they flow.

So why I love thee well I cannot tell:
Only it is that when thou speak'st to me
'T is thy voice speaks, and when thy face I see
It is thy face I see; and it befell
Thou wert, and I was, and I love thee well.

Among the trees, O God,
Is there not one
That with unrivalled love
Thou look'st upon?

And of all blessed birds,
Hath not thy Love
Found for its fittest mate
The homing dove?

Or, mid the flame of flowers
That light the land,
Doth not the lily first
Before thee stand?

So says my soul, O God,
The type of thee.
" In each life-circle, one
Was made for me. "

Yea; a bubble though I be,
Love, O man, that fashioned thee
Of the dust, created me
Not of earth, but of the sea:
Kindred blossoms then are we —
Time-blooms on eternity.

Because we are shut out from light,
Each of the other's look and smile;
Because the arms' and lips' delight
Are past and dead, a weary while;

Because the dawn, that joy has brought,
Brings now but certainty of pain,
Nothing for you and me has bought
The right to live our lives in vain.

Take not away the only lure
That leads me on my lonely way,
To know you noble, sweet, and pure,
Great in least service, day by day.

Love is a day, Sweetheart, shining and bright:
It hath its rose-dawn ere the morning light;
Its glow and glory of the sudden sun;
Its noon-tide heat as the swift hours wear on;
Its fall of dew, and silver-lighted night, —
Love is a day. Sweetheart, shining and bright.

Love is a year, Beloved, bitter and brief:
It hath its spring of bud, and bloom and leaf;
Its summer burning from the fervid South
Till all the fields lie parched and faint with drouth;
Its autumn, when the leaves sweep down the gale,

In the South is Love's land,
Where the roses blow,
Where the Summer lingers
Fearless of the snow.
There no Winter chills it,
So its life is long, —
Gentle breezes fan it,
Age but makes it strong.

" Nay, fresh roses wither
Where the sun is hot, —
Not in torrid regions
Blooms Forget-me-not.
Love's a tender blossom
Which the Winter chills,
But the eager Summer
Kisses it, and kills. "