We are the homeless, even as you,
Who hope and never can begin.
Our hearts are wounded through and through
Like yours, but our hearts bleed within.
We too make music, but our tones
'Scape not the barrier of our bones.

We have no comeliness like you.
We toil, unlovely, and we spin.
We start, return: we wind, undo:
We hope, we err, we strive, we sin,
We love: your love's not greater, but
The lips of our love's might stay shut.

We have the evil spirits too
That shake our soul with battle-din.

Love laid aside his torch, his quiver, and his bow,
And like a roguish herdsman, a ploughing he would go.
He took a pair of bulls, so patient and so strong,
And as he went, he looked to heaven, and sung this merry song: —
Now mind me, Jove, a harvest, — a good harvest, — or by Jove,
I'll make the bull come plough for me, that ploughed the seas for love.

Moan with me, moan, ye woods and Dorian waters,
And weep, ye rivers, the delightful Bion;
Ye plants, now stand in tears; murmur, ye groves;
Ye flowers, sigh forth your odours with sad buds;
Flush deep, ye roses and anemones;
And more than ever now, oh hyacinth, show
Your written sorrows: — the sweet singer 's dead.

Raise, raise the dirge, Muses of Sicily.
Ye nightingales, that mourn in the thick leaves,
Tell the Sicilian streams of Arethuse,
Bion the shepherd's dead; and that with him
Melody's dead, and gone the Dorian song.

I DREAMT I saw by me great Venus stand,
Leading a noble infant by the hand,
And that she said to me familiarly,
Take Love, and teach him how to play to me.
She vanished then. And I, poor fool, must turn
To teach the boy, as if he wished to learn;
I taught him all the pastoral songs I knew,
And used to sing; and I informed him too
How Pan found out the pipe, Pallas the flute,
Phaebus the lyre, and Mercury the lute.
But not a jot for all my words cared he,
But lo! fell singing his love-songs to me,
And told me of the loves of gods and men,

An exquisite invention this
Worthy of Love's most honied kiss,
This art of writing billet-doux
In buds, and odours, and bright hues!
Of saying all one feels and thinks
In clever daffodils and pinks;
In puns of tulips; and in phrases,
Charming for their truth, of daisies;
Uttering, as well as silence may,
The sweetest words the sweetest way.
How fit too for the lady's bosom!
The place where billet-doux repose'em.

What delight, in some sweet spot
Combining love with garden plot,
At once to cultivate one's flowers

O homely, puzzling, truthful words
We women sometimes say!
I love you just as much, dear heart,
But in a different way.

We cannot tell you what we mean,
However you may pray,
Nor make you feel the later love
Is quite so sweet a way.

Yet often truer than your oaths
Those foolish words we say:
" I love you just as much, dear heart,
But in a different way. "

I wish I might have borne the woe
Of hopeless love and unrequited,
And kept a noble all my life
The man my sovereign fancy knighted.

I thought that pain was hard to bear;
'T was light beside this later sorrow:
To bid farewell to him to-day,
Nor care to see him on the morrow!

Love is already on the wing:
How quick to fly, once he was freed!
We would not call him if we could, —
God-speed, dear Love, God-speed!

Love is already on the wing:
Both you and I are glad indeed.
Yet voices tremble as we cry,
" God-speed, dear Love, God-speed! "

Oh is it food for sighs at Fate,
Or is it food for laughter,
That men should love the best to-day,
And women the day after?

Men seize the hour to vow and kiss,
Forget, and onward wander;
But women on the morrow sigh,
" To-day I would be fonder! "

Women steal back, look through the pales
At finished yesterday.
" Why was it winter with me then,
When now my mood is May? "

How fair for women were the world,
How full of song and laughter,
If they could love to-day, or men
Could love them the day after!

Strive not, dear Love, to hide from me thy pain;
I know thou lov'st, and art not loved again.
So I love thee, yea, just as much in vain;
Shrink not then, Love: we bear a common pain.

We two, alone and chilled, stand side by side,
By a grief severed, by a grief allied.
The earth a snow-clad moorland stretches wide,
And we are far apart, though side by side.