When Love was young, in days of yore,
On bended knee full oft I swore
To him alone I'd homage pay;
I'd love forever and a day,
And love with every day the more.

I sang his praises o'er and o'er;
I conned no missal but his lore —
Oh, but the world and I were gay
When Love was young!

His blazonry the morning bore,
And all the larks that sing and soar
Praised him upon their skyward way
... Ah, happy choir of yesterday,
When Love was young!

Is Love at end? How did he go?
His coming was full sweet, I know;
But when he went he slipped away
And never paused to say good-day —
How could the traitor leave me so?

There's something in the summer, though,
That brings the old time back, and lo!
This phantom that would bar my way
Is dead Love's ghost.

His footfall is as soft as snow,
And in his path the lilies blow;
He quenches the just-kindled ray
With which I fain would light my way,
And bids me newer joys forego,
This tyrant ghost.

O YOU , that dwell where shepherds reign,
Arcadian youths, Arcadian maids,
To pastoral pipe who danc'd the plain;
Why pensive now beneath the shades?

Approach her virgin tomb, they cry,
Behold the verse inscrib'd above,
Once too in Arcady was I, —
Behold what dreams are life and love!

A lecture to be mild in love

Whilst that in bleating flocks of snow
The Dounes are clad the meads below
With various heards all covered be
When from the yoak their necks are free.

And all the fields by Ceres blest
Are turnd to ears that never rest
Each naked wood anew receives
A fresh light canopy of leavs.

Under whose secret brainches quires
Of winged singers stirr up fires
Of action whilst the purling spring
Quenches not, but adds fuelling.

The kisses wanton Zephirs threw
O'th'Corn, o'th'leavs o'th'morning dew

I am Raftery the poet, full of hope and love; my eyes without light, my gentleness without misery. Going west on my journey with the light of my heart; weak and tired to the end of my road. I am now, and my back to a wall, playing music to empty pockets.

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.