Who hath not seen my love? Her violet eyes
Like morning blooms awake, and, all aglow,
The heav'nly fruitage yet untasted lies
On the full lip which swells and smiles below.
The movements of her noiseless feet keep time
To tremulous music of a world-old song
Which all the Hours do breathe into her ear;
And many, many languish in their prime,
For hopeless love of her who hath been long
My chiefest joy through the full-seasoned year.

Be not too boist'rous, or to free to take
Those curls into thy lap, O Summer wind!

Love was wanting songs to sing
On a golden day,
When the earth was bright with Spring
And the flowers of May.

So he lay beside the brink
Of a quiet stream,
Where the cattle go to drink
And the clouds to dream.

Sunbeams lit the woods around,
Breezes fanned his cheek,
And the blossoms on the ground
Almost seemed to speak.

In the branches overhead
Robin sang his love,
And the tender things he said
Filled the skies above.

Flitting through the scented air
Where the stream was bright,

Love hath built himself a house
Underneath the snow,
Where, amid the winter's storm,
He can keep his body warm,
When the winds do blow.

It is lined with leaves that fell
Half a year ago,
And around it linger yet
Odours of spring violet,
Underneath the snow.

If you come and try to peep
Into what's below,
Laughing loud, as if in fun,
Love jumps up and makes you run,
Pelting you with snow.

What does Love do night and day?
Would you like to know?
In the dark he sits and weeps

Love has gone a-straying,
Like a cloud in May,
Down the silent wind-ways,
Past the bounds of day.
When will he return again?
When will his fire burn again?
I am broken-hearted
Since sweet Love departed.

Love has gone a-straying—
Call him back to me,
Up the silent wind-ways,
Over land and sea.
Tell him he must bring again
Joys that I can sing again;
I am broken-hearted
Since sweet Love departed.

Love has gone a-straying,
Foolish, foolish Love,
Seeking up the wind-ways
For the stars above;

The days and weeks are going, love,
The years roll on apace,
And the hand of time is showing, love,
In the care-lines on thy face;

But the tie that bound our hearts, love,
In the morning's golden haze,
Is a tie that never parts, love,
With the passing of the days.

For though Death's arm be strong, love,
Our love its light will shed,
And like a glorious song, love,
Will live when Death is dead.

( A PAINTING BY SIR EDWARD BURNE-JONES )

Sweet Psyche, hath thy quest of Love
So led thee to a sterile land,
Only to grief and fear at last?
What stranger this who bends above
Thy beauty? What unshapely hand
Hides in the glory of thy hair?
Pale wanderer, thy long sorrows past,
May find no solace in those eyes,
Though wistfully they scrutinize
Thy face, and, dimly, know it fair.

Go thou thy way bright Love to find;
And in the bliss of his embrace
Thou shalt forget Pan's dusky face.

Listen , spring is in the air;
As of old the earth is fair;
Youth is dead, and sorrow lies
With a dream across his eyes.
Softly, swiftly, lest he wake,
Kiss again for Love's dear sake.
Nay, for Love unsmiling stands,
Holds a cup within his hands
Bright and bitter to the brim.
Who are ye dare drink with him?

" O LOVE , thou art winged and swift,
Yet stay with me evermore! "
And I guarded my house with bolt and bar
Lest Love fly forth at the door.

Without, in the world, 't was cold,
While Love and I together
Laughed and sang by my red hearth-fire,
Nor knew it was winter weather.

Sweet Love would lull me to sleep,
In his tireless arm caressed;
His shadowing wings and burning eyes
Like night and stars wrought rest.

And ever the beat of Love's heart
As a chime rang at my ear;
And ever Love's bending, beautiful face

Come , O Love, while the far stars whiten,
Gathering, growing, momently;
Thou, who art star of stars, to lighten
One dim heart that waiteth thee.

Speak, O Love, for the silence presses,
Bowing my spirit like a fear;
Thou, whose words are as caresses,
Sweet, sole voice that I long to hear.

IN THE FORTRESS OF PETER AND PAUL

The liberal summer wind and sky and sea,
For thy sake, narrow like a prison cell
About the wistful hearts that love thee well
And have no power to comfort nor set free.
They dare not ask what these hours mean to thee:
Delays and silences intolerable?
The joy that seemed so near, that soared, and fell,
Become a patient, tragic memory?