Long are the hours, the storm winds blow,
Night passes ere the Pleiads set,
But still before her door I go
With driving rain all wet.

This is not love, this torturing smart,
These arrows forged in flaming fire;
I know her false, but yet my heart
Still burns with mad desire.

I.

Love with all thy strength of being, while the summer days are long,
While thy heart can mix its music with the lark's and thrush's song;
While the heart of woman seeks thee for the sake of love alone,
While thine ardour wins her sweetness, lures her from her starry throne.

II.

Love with all thy might of manhood, while the summer nights are sweet,
While the honeysuckle listens for the sound of lovers' feet;
While thy voice can ring with passion, while keen rapture can be won,

The Lord, the Judge, his churches warns;
Let hypocrites attend and fear,
Who place their hope in rites and forms,
But make not faith nor love their care.

Vile wretches dare rehearse his name,
With lips of falsehood and deceit;
A friend or brother they defame,
And sooth and flatter those they hate.

They watch to do their neighbors wrong,
Yet dare to seek their Maker's face;
They take his cov'nant on their tongue,
But break his laws, abuse his grace.

To heav'n they lift their hands unclean;

I .

The Lily watched the stately Rose
And envied her her bloom
" I wait, " she said, " in white repose,
I might be in my tomb
The Rose is sweet, the Rose is red,
Her lover is the Sun:
But I — I might as well be dead!
I'm loved and sought of none!

I never shall be happy,
I never shall be red!
The Rose has won my sweetheart,

What wonder is't if Love, the bane of man,
Has weapons three to work his cruel plan.
The mother from whose womb he came to life
Was bride of Fire, and paramour of Strife,
Herself fierce Ocean's child, lashed by the breeze,
Without a father, rising from the seas.
And so from husband, lover, and grand-dame
Her son's rough laugh, bold eyes, red arrows came.
Thalatta's temper his, Hephaestus' fire,
And shafts of Ares stained with blood and mire.

I'll Burn your bow, bold lad; by Love I swear,
Your quiver, too, with all its Scythian gear.
I will indeed, though now you sneer and cry;
That empty laugh shall soon be turned awry.
I'll break your pinions winged with passion fleet
And fasten brazen fetters on your feet.
And yet methinks a doubtful prize I win
To let a wolf my fenced heart steal within.
Nay, you are victor. Quick your sandals take
And fly away some other heart to break.

To Market with him, though he sleep
Upon his mother's breast.
To market with him: I'll not keep
So insolent a pest.

Glib, unabashed, swift glancing, wild,
A monster void of shame;
His mother even fears her child
As one she cannot tame.

Sly-faced is he, with wings close pressed
And nails that scratch and smart;
While tears fall from his eyes distressed
A smile his lips will part.

So quick to market send him down
To see if one will buy.
Is any merchant leaving town?
Let him come here and try.

My Love has gone astray,
This very morn he left me.
The wild lad flew away,
Of sleep bereft me.

His back two wings uprears,
His hand a quiver peerless,
Sly smiles he sends, soft tears;
Glib, swift, and fearless.

You ask whose son is he?
I cannot guess it even.
None owns him, neither sea
Nor earth nor heaven.

All hate him: even now
Beware the way he's going.
He's snaring hearts, I trow,
For men's undoing.

Hist! there in archer's guise
I see him taking cover.
He hides in Zeno's eyes:

— O Cruel, cruel Love! — Yet why
Should hapless lovers sob and sigh?
The lad grows strong as you revile
And greets each menace with a smile.
Our Lady rose once from the gray-green main,
Her child, oh wonder, burns in every vein.

" Oh, well I love the red red gold,
So sang the maiden fair:
" I love to twine in fold on fold
My bright soft golden hair
In spring the golden daffodils
Shine out in field and lane,
And when red gold the coffer fills
Why should a girl complain —
And when red gold the coffer fills
Why should a girl complain, complain,
Why should a girl complain? "

There came a lover bold and strong
To worship and to dare;
His voice of gold sang passion's song,
He stroked the golden hair.