O cruel Love, how fierce the fire
That burns my fluttering heart;
Burn not too often, lest desire
A runaway depart.

If I may not see thee much,
Sweet at least it is to touch
Hand and hand;
Sweet at least it is to know
That a heart can understand
And that sympathy can grow.

If I may not win thee now,
I can worship thy pure brow
Where the hair
Coils so lovingly for crown —
Can rejoice to find thee fair,
And may win for thee renown.

That is much to do indeed:
If the world shall give its heed
As it goes
With swift footstep on its way,

I.

The flowers that as they fade fling parting kisses tender
From valley and hill and lea
Towards Autumn, know that Spring will mark fresh blossoms splendour;
But when Spring comes, love, I shall not have thee.

II.

The blue waves now along September gold shores gleaming
Will change to an angry sea;
But when the next Spring's ocean smiles, with eyes love-dreaming,
It will not smile on thee.

III.

Thou art gone! thou art gone! thou art gone! — And I, I may not follow!
When with swift wings and glee

When viewing those who're passing by,
Unmov'd you others see,
But sudden still withdraw your eye,
If chance it fall on me.

What shall I think? Can I or be
Object of love or hate?
From this suspence, ah! set me free,
And quickly tell my fate.

Of earthly bliss what most I wish to find
Is the affection of a kindred mind,
From fair to fair still ceaseless turns my breast,
And seeks a love in which at last to rest.
I boast not fortune's gifts, as little claim
I boast not fortune's gifts, as little claim
The splendour of a long-descended name;
I only boast a heart with passion mov'd,
That, loving, likewise merits to be lov'd.
Say, Delia, say, could you for me forgo
Of wealth the pleasure, and the pomp of show
These willingly resign, content to prove

This is the poet's doom: to love all joys,
To mark them fading, and to mourn them dead.
To see the rose at day-break blushing red:
At night to watch the wind with wanton noise
Scattering the petals from their perfect poise, —
Strewing with pale pink gems the brown cold bed;
To marvel at some woman's curve of head,
Till death both body and carven brow destroys.

This is the poet's doom — far more than others
To feel the life, and so the death far more:
To sing for the sweet sake of tuneless brothers

( " Viens! une flute. " )

Come, O come! an unseen flute
'Mid the orchard-bowers is sighing! —
Ah! the song that makes most mute
Is the shepherd-song soft-dying.

Breezes, 'neath the elm vine-clad
Gently fret the river-shadows. —
Ah! the song that makes most glad
Is the bird-song from the meadows.

Be no care in thy bright breast.
Let us love! Ay, love for ever! —
Ah! the song the loveliest

I.

" He that hath loved deserveth not to die. "
So thought I; and a sudden vision came
Of birds of splendour, crowned with crimson flame,
Wings touched with brilliance of the azure sky,
Breasts sapphire, throats of emerald, flying high
In the old forest-haunts without a name, —
The sweet green palaces that shone the same
Millions of centuries ere a man was nigh.

I saw them frolic through the leafy arches,

Yes! some such form hath haunted me before,
In younger days, when I have lingered long
In fairy glade, and drank the Poet's song,
And revelled fondly in romantic lore;
But never one the garb of mortal wore,
Or uttered human breath, till from the throng,
Of fierce and feeble — powerless and strong —
Hideous and lovely, thou didst spring, and o'er
My path of life scattered the light of love,

Court no more those ladies fine
Who in silks and satins shine,
Drenched in scent, of love afraid
If they have no waiting maid.

Choose a girl, whose bosom brown,
Teeth, and hair are all her own,
With your Love alone content,
Though no gift of gold be sent.

She will take you when you will
To her arms and love you still,
And, like Pyrrhus, you shall be
Heedless of Hermioni.