“And dost thou love me not a whit the less:
And is thy heart as tremulous as of yore,
And do thine eyes mirror the wonderfulness,
And do thy lips retain their magic lore?”
What, Sweet, can these things be, ev'n in thy thought,
And I so briefly gone, so swiftly come
Nay, if the pulse of life its beat forgot
This speaking heart would not thereby be dumb.
I love thee, love thee so, O beautiful Hell
That dost consume heart, brain, nerves, body, soul
That even my immortal birthright I would sell
Were Heaven to choose, or Thee, as my one goal.

With wasps and bees my busy bill
Sucks ill from good, and good from ill:
Humility makes my pride to grow,
And pride aspiring lays me low.

My standing does my fall procure,
My falling makes me stand more sure.
My poison does my physic prove,
My enmity provokes my love.

My poverty infers my wealth,
My sickness issues in my health.
My hardness tends to make me soft,
And killing things to cure me oft.

While high attainments cast me down,
My deep abasement raise me soon.
My best things oft have evil brood;

Dear David Harum, your quaint wisdom comes
Fresh from the land we love to call our own.
It is the bird that sings, the bee that hums,
The wind that blows across a grove o'ergrown;
In him who voices you, you live again,
We know not which is Harum,—
Which is Crane!

I AM the Comic Muse,
Soft as the summer rain,
Come the children I bear
Out of the breath of my brain;
Love,—and Laughter that lifts,
Joy with the lilt of a song,
Beauty that's born of praise,
And Faith that has righted wrong.
I am the heart of a child,
I am the trust of a maid,
Spirit and passion of man,
Love that is unbetrayed;
I am the Muse that smiles,
Lo! and gladness is rife,
Comedy, I am called,
I am the mirror of Life.

Lovely kind, and kindly loving,
Such a mind were worth the moving;
Truly fair, and fairly true—
Where are all these, but in you?

Wisely kind, and kindly wise;
Blessëd life, where such love lies!
Wise, and kind, and fair, and true—
Lovely live all these in you.

Sweetly dear, and dearly sweet;
Blessëd, where these blessings meet!
Sweet, fair, wise, kind, blessëd, true—
Blessëd be all these in you!

I love to tell the story Of unseen things above,
Of Jesus and his glory, Of Jesus and his love.
I love to tell the story, Because I know 'tis true;
It satisfies my longings As nothing else can do.
I love to tell the story,
'Twill be my theme in glory
To tell the old, old story
Of Jesus and his love.

I love to tell the story; More wonderful it seems
Than all the golden fancies Of all our golden dreams.
I love to tell the story, It did so much for me;
And that is just the reason I tell it now to thee.

O Were my Love yon Lilack fair,
Wi' purple blossoms to the Spring;
And I, a bird to shelter there,
When wearied on my little wing.

How I wad mourn, when it was torn
By Autumn wild, and Winter rude!
But I wad sing on wanton wing,
When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd.

[O gin my love were yon red rose,
That grows upon the castle wa'!
And I mysel' a drap o' dew,
Into her bonnie breast to fa'!

Oh, there beyond expression blesst
I'd feast on beauty a' the night;
Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest,

Like pain of fire runs down my body my love to you, my dear!
Like pain runs down my body my love to you, my dear!
Just as sickness is my love to you, my dear.
Just as a boil pains me my love to you, my dear.
Just as fire burns me my love to you, my dear.
I am thinking of what you said to me.
I am thinking of the love you bear me.
I am afraid of your love, my dear.
O pain! o pain!
Oh, where is my true love going, my dear?
Oh, they say she will be taken away far from here. She will leave me, my true love, my dear.

At break of dawn
he takes a street-car, happy
after a night of love.

Happy,
but sleepily wondering
how many away is the night

when an ecto-endomorph
cock-sucker must put on
The Widow's Cap.

Weep, Lovers, sith Love's very self doth weep,
And sith the cause for weeping is so great;
When now so many dames, of such estate
In worth, show with their eyes a grief so deep
For Death the churl has laid his leaden sleep
Upon a damsel who was fair of late,
Defacing all our earth should celebrate,--
Yea all save virtue, which the soul doth keep.
Now hearken how much Love did honor her.
I myself saw him in his proper form
Bending above the motionless sweet dead,
And often gazing into Heaven; for there