You are a poet, sycamore,
A minor poet.
You are not much good in a practical world;
You shed your ragged leaves early, and clutter up the landscape.
But you are lovely on winter evenings
Against the afterglow—
Bare and pale and a little disdainful,

O peace is a white bird,
And Beauty is a castled cloud,
And Love is a fierce fire that loves to be made kind;

And I have climbed the castled cloud,
And I have caged the fierce fire,
But the white bird, the white bird—her I cannot bind!

My love she was a Gipsey O
The brown and bonny Gipsey O
She fortunes told from town to town
And sometimes she got tipsey O
Her face was brown as is the ground
Her eyes are two eclipses
The sun is fixed the rest go round
She's the sun O' the gipseys O.

A gipsey lass my love was born
Among the heaths furze bushes O
More fair than Lady's on the lawn
Whose song is like the thrushes O
Like links O' snakes her inky hair
The dandy beau she kisses O
Her face round as an apple fair
She blisters where she kisses O.

All glory to my God and King And to his place above
He shields me with his mighty wing And keeps me for his love.

Jesus, I covet to love Thee,
And that is wholly my yearning:
Therefore to love Thee Thou teach me,
And I Thy love shall ever sing.

Jesus, Thy love into me send
And with Thy love Thou me feed.
Jesus, Thy love aye in me lend!
Thy Love ever be my soul's meed.

Jesus, my heart with love Thou light!
Thy love me make e'er to forsake
All worldly joy both day and night
Thee alone my joy to make.

Jesus, Thy love me chaufe within
So that no thing but Thee I seek;
In Thy love make my soul to brynne

Sweet bird! whose fate and mine agree,
As far as proud humanity,
The parellel will own;
O let our voice and hearts combine,
O let us, fellow-warblers join,
Our patroness to crown.

When heavy hung thy flagging wing,
When thou could'st neither move nor sing,
Of spirits void and rest;
A lovely nymph her aid apply'd,
She gave the bliss to heav'n allied,
And cur'd thee on her breast.

Me too the kind indulgent maid,
With gen'rous care and timely aid,
Restor'd to mirth and health;
Then join'd to her, O may I prove

Two mothers met one day at the door of a church.
One entered, full of radiant joy,
Proud and triumphant, carrying in her arms
Her little child for baptism.

The other, the unhappy one, leaving the threshold,
Also carried a child, but this poor mother
Brought it, dead, for burial.

A few more steps and the two met
She who bore in her happy arms
The child of her love;
The other, bathed in tears,
Who followed her dead baby.

Their eyes met. And at that moment
It was the happy mother from whose eyes

He who satire loves to sing,
On himself will satire bring.

The twilight fleeted away in pearl on the stream,
And night, like a diamond dome, stood still in our dream.
Your eyes like burnished stones or as stars were bright
With the sudden vision that made us one with the night.

We loved in infinite spaces, forgetting here
The breasts that were lit with life and the lips so near;
Till the wizard willows waved in the wind and drew
Me away from the fulness of love and down to you.

Our love was so vast that it filled the heavens up:
But the soft white form I held was an empty cup,

I will sing of dainty Eros
Decked with many-coloured garlands:
He is master of the Immortals,
He is victor over men!