I LOVE thee — none may know how well,
And yet — I would not have thee love me,
To thy good heart 'twere very hell,
To love me dear, and not approve me.

Whate'er thou lov'st it is not thine ,
But 'tis thyself — then sad it were, love,
If thou for every sin of mine,
Should weep, repent, mayhap, despair — love.

Then love me not — thou can'st not scorn,
And mind — I do not bid thee hate me,
And if I die, oh, do not mourn,
But if I live, do new create me.

Sighing softly to the river
Comes the loving breeze,
Setting nature all a-quiver,
Rustling through the trees!
And the brook in rippling measure
Laughs for very love,
While the poplars, in their pleasure,
Wave their arms above!
River, river, little river,
May thy loving prosper ever.
Heaven speed thee, poplar tree,
May thy wooing happy be!

Yet, the breeze is but a rover,
When he wings away,
Brook and poplar mourn a lover!
Sighing well-a-day!
Ah, the doing and undoing
That the rogue could tell!

What can a poor man do but love and pray?
But if his love be selfish, then his prayer,
Like noisome vapour melts in vacant air.
I am a debtor, and I cannot pay.
The alms which drop upon the public way, —
The casual tribute of the good and fair,
With the keen, thriftless avarice of despair
I seize, and live thereon from day to day,
Ingrate and purposeless. — And yet not so:
The mere mendicity of self contempt
Has not so far debased me, but I know
The faith, the hope, the piety, exempt
From worldly doubt, to which my all I owe.

A BOAT unmoored, wherein a dreamer lies,
The slumberous waves low-lisping of a land
Where Love, forever with unclouded eyes,
Goes, wed with wandering Music, hand in hand.

How long, O Lord, how long
These penal fires among?
— Till love with fiercer flame
The strength of torture tame.

Nay , be not June, nor yet December, dear,
But April always, as I find thee now:
A constant freshness unto me be thou,
And not the ripeness that must soon be sere.
Why should I be Time's dupe, and wish more near
The sobering harvest of thy vernal vow?
I am content, so still across thy brow
Returning smile chase transitory tear.
Then scatter thy April heart in sunny showers;
I want nor Summer drouth nor Winter sleet:
As Spring be fickle, so thou be as sweet;
With half-kept promise tantalise the hours;

I HEARD one cry out strongly, " Love is dead! "
And then we went and looked upon his face,
Turned into marble by Death's final grace:
His silent lips, that once so vainly pled,
Smile now, as men smile being newly wed;
Since some strange joy Life's sorrows did efface
When Death's arms clasped him in supreme embrace,
All his long pain of living comforted.

And you would wake him? Dare you him recall
From Death's enamouring to Life's stern pain;
Make him again the old grief's hopeless thrall;
Bind him once more with the old clanking chain,

Oh, foolish fay,
Think you because
Man's brave array
My bosom thaws
I'd disobey
Our fairy laws?
Because I fly
In realms above,
In tendency
To fall in love
Resemble I
The amorous dove?

Oh, amorous dove!
Type of Ovidius Naso!
This heart of mine
Is soft as thine,
Although I dare not say so!

On fire that glows
With heat intense
I turn the hose
Of Common Sense,
And out it goes
At small expense!
We must maintain
Our fairy law;
That is the main
On which to draw —
In that we gain

Do I love thee? Who can tell?
Time was when I loved thee well:
Is this love that now I bear,
Or does Use Love's semblance wear?

Should I grieve if thou wert gone?
Should I miss thee, left alone?
Would the summer be less sweet
If our lips should never meet?

If some other fairer Fair
Fettered thee with silken snare,
Should I sorrow to behold
Thee her captive — mine of old?

Ah, it may be, should we part,
I should learn how dear thou art, —
When the gods withdraw we know
How divine the feet that go.

Roses the lover gives to his love;
Roses we lay on the breast of death
That nevermore fondest whisper can move, —
Which is the sweeter, answer and prove,
Passionate love, or sleep without breath?

For love you burn with a crimson fire,
For death you are pale as the winter's snow:
Warm for the one, with the heart's desire,
Cold for the other, since hopes expire, —
Which is the sweeter? When shall we know?