So smell those odours that do rise
From out the wealthy spiceries;
So smells the flower of blooming clove,
Or roses smothered in the stove;
So smells the air of spicèd wine,
Or essences of jessamine;
So smells the breath about the hives,
When well the work of honey thrives,
And all the busy factors come
Laden with wax and honey home;
So smell those neat and woven bowers,
All over-arched with orange-flowers,
And almond blossoms, that do mix
To make rich these aromatics;
So smell those bracelets and those bands

So fair, so dear, so warm upon my bosom,
And in my hands the little rosy feet.
Sleep on, my little bird, my lamb, my blossom;
Sleep on, sleep on, my sweet.

What is it God hath given me to cherish,
This living, moving wonder which is mine —
Mine only? Leave it with me or I perish,
Dear Lord of love divine.

Dear Lord, 'tis wonderful beyond all wonder,
This tender miracle vouchsafed to me,
One with myself, yet just so far asunder
That I myself may see.

Flesh of my flesh, and yet so subtly linking

SHOW me more love, my dearest Lord ;
Oh turn away Thy clouded face,
Give me some secret look or word
That may betoken love and grace;
No day or time is black to me
But that wherein I see not Thee.
Show me more love: a clouded face
Strikes deeper than an angry blow;
Love me and kill me by Thy grace,
I shall not much bewail my woe.
But even to be
In heaven unloved of Thee,
Were hell in heaven for to see.
Then hear my cry and help afford:
Show me more love, my dearest Lord !

Show me more love, my dearest Lord , —

To a Movement in Mozart's E-Flat Symphony

Show me again the time
When in the Junetide's prime
We flew by meads and mountains northerly! —
Yea, to such freshness, fairness, fulness, fineness, freeness,
Love lures life on.

Show me again the day
When from the sandy bay

Shoot, false Love, I care not.
Spend thy shafts and spare not.
I fear not, I, thy might,
And less I weigh thy spite.
If thou canst, now shoot and harm me.
So lightly I esteem thee,
As now a child I deem thee.

She trips across the meadows,
The weird, capricious elf!
The buds unfold their perfumed cups
For love of her sweet self;
And silver-throated birds begin to tune their lyres,
While wind-harps lend their strains to Nature's magic choirs.

She loved the Autumn, I the Spring,
Sad all the songs she loved to sing;
And in her face was strangely set
Some great inherited regret.

Some look in all things made her sigh,
Yea! sad to her the morning sky:
" So sad! so sad its beauty seems " —
I hear her say it still in dreams.

But when the day grew gray and old,
And rising stars shone strange and cold,
Then only in her face I saw
A mystic glee, a joyous awe.

Spirit of Sadness, in the spheres
Is there an end of mortal tears?
Or is there still in those great eyes

Shall I say that I love you,
Daphne disdainful?
Sore it costs as I prove you,
Loving is painful.

Shall I say what doth grieve me?
Lovers lament it.
Daphne will not relieve me;
Late I repent it.

Shall I die, shall I perish,
Through her unkindness?
Love, untaught love to cherish,
Showeth his blindness.

Shall the hills, shall the valleys,
The fields, the city,
With the sound of my outcries,
Move her to pity?

The deep falls of fair rivers
And the winds turning
Are the true music-givers

The shadow gates are swinging
That hide the dawning year;
The sound of muffled ringing
Is swiftly growing clear;
The far-off music, falling
Like flutes soft and low,
Becomes a trumpet, calling,
And I must rise and go.

Lord, let my feet be surer
To walk the way unknown,
My heart a Kingdom purer,
With love upon its throne;
And let me have a vision
Of truth, and life, and need,
And hands of quick decision
For every noble deed.

And thus with humble gladness
I greet the dawning year,

Unguarded lies the wishing Maid,
Distrusting not to be betraid;
Ready to fall, with all her Charms,
A shining Treasure to your Arms.

Who hears this Story must believe,
No Swain can truer Joy receive.
Since to take Love, and give it too
Is all that Love for Hearts can do.