An angel watched the world rejoicing:
The flowers sang in the morning light;
The blue sea sang its tender love-song
To golden-girdled stars at night.
All seemed so full of peace and gladness—
Till lo! a sudden ice-cold breath
Passed over hill and wave and meadow:
A stern voice whispered, “I am Death!”

Alas! in all that angel's dreaming
His loving heart had never dreamed
That only for one single moment
The fairy blossoms sang and gleamed.
He turned, and in despairing sadness
Would have resought the heavens above,

To sea those pirate craft again have gone,
Euphro and Thaïs and Boïdion.
Such harpies once as vexed King Diomede,
Stripping their victims naked in their greed.
Agis they've wrecked and Cleophon as well,
Antagoras of them a tale can tell.
Fly then Love's corsairs, fly these frigates bold,
More deadly they than Siren maids of old.

Pour out and pour and pour again,
And ‘Heliodora’ cry;
Let that dear word be our refrain,
As fast the wine cups fly.

Three spirits fair in her combined
Have come from heaven above,
And we in her one body find
Allurement, Grace, and Love.

Leaving the bower of love, I seek the scene
Where thought's mailed servants in their stout array
Drive with straight swords the opposing clouds between:
Oh, at the dawning of a stormy day
That breaks tempestuous over wastes of grey
We are living—yet within high thought's domain
Are there not many gracious words to say?
What if the singer's robe with sanguine stain
Be wet, voice hoarsened from the battle-rain,
Shall he not find more rest and sweeter after
When to his heart thy white form he doth strain,

When youth is gone, and love is gone,
What lights the woodland way?
October's sunset, chill and wan;
The light of Autumn grey.
When youth is gone, and love is fled,
For us the world might well be dead!

When youth is gone,—as dead leaves go
Along the autumnal blast,—
Then first ourselves we seem to know
What all shall know at last;
The autumn weariness of life,
Past love and labour, zeal and strife.

When love is gone,—as blossoms fade,
Fade swiftly one by one,—
Our tired hearts tremble, as cold shade
Replaces summer sun.

Love is worth having: this we know and preach.
Though heartless, mindless, soulless, Nature be,
And all the voices of her wild white sea
Have nought of loving helpful God to teach;
Though, piercing far beyond the stars, we reach
More stars,—but no high heaven of sacred glee;
Though summer laughing in the dense green tree
Hath but a mocking restless helpless speech;
Though this be so, yet love is passing fair
And more than ever do we seek her face,
And seek her breast, and nestle in her hair,
And dream of her delight in every place.

The house was still, our lamp burned bright,
We two and none else nigh.
The lamp alone might know our troth
And night's sweet mystery.

He vowed to love me true: I vowed
Never to part again,
Thou, sacred Night, and thou, dear Lamp,
Were for us witness twain.

But now he says our vows are dead,
Swept by the changing tide;
This eve will see my own false love
Sleep by another's side.

My eyes with floods of tears o'erflow,
My bosom heaves with constant woe;
Those eyes which thy unkindness swells,
That bosom where thy image dwells!
How could I hope so weak a flame
Could ever warm that matchless dame,
When none Elysium must behold
Without a radiant bough of gold?
'Tis her's in spheres to shine;
At distance to admire is mine;
Doom'd like th' enamour'd youth to groan
For a new goddess form'd of stone.
While thus I spoke, Love's gentle pow'r
Descended from th' ethereal bow'r;
A quiver at his shoulder hung,

In the kingly palace garden
Blooms a roselet fair and bright,
See, it has been sprinkled over
With repeated dews of night.

I N the kingly palace garden,
See the bud that rose-tree bears;
Twice—my lovely maid—at even,
Twice—hath bath'd it with her tears.

I N the kingly palace garden,
There we poured our last adieu!
And behind that lovely rose-tree,
Gave our parting kisses too.

Whom raging dog doth bite,
Hee doth in water still
That Cerberus' image see:
Loue mad, perhaps, when he my heart did smite,
More to dissemble ill,
Transform'd himselfe in thee,
For euer since thou present art to mee:
No spring there is, no floud, nor other place,
Where I, alas! not see thy heauenly face.