One day in a lonesome grove,
Lit o'er my head a little dove,
O little dove, you are not alone,
Like you I am constrained to mourn.
There is one thing that cheers my heart,
That my dear Mary's gone to rest,
And while tongue can move,
She prayed, she prayed her
Lord her pardoning love.

Do you see yon turtle-dove lamenting on yonder vine?
She's mourning for her own true love,
Why shouldn't I, too, mourn for mine?
My little dove, you're not alone,
For with you I'm constrained to mourn,
I once like you did have a mate,

On the Occident she shed her light
who kindled in the Orient of beauty;
him to detain who hastened to his doom
the heaven of the West sought out the Sun.

I, in the Occident guitaring light,
in a love-distracted dying burned;
(the consummation of my little day
was Moon, because my life was up betimes).

Thou gainest from the Occident on the Sun;
fatal wounds he fugitive inflicts,
thou motionless inflictest wounds of healing.

In the Orient still he fans his pyres;
and thou, from out the West, a livelier Sun,

O wha wou'd wish the win' to blaw
Or the green leaves fa' therewith;
Or wha wad wish a leeler love
Than Brown Adam the Smith?

His hammer 's o' the beaten gold,
His study 's o' the steel,
His fingers white are my delite,
He blows his bellows we[e]l.

But they ha' banish'd him Brown Adam
Frae father and frae mither,
An' they ha' banish'd him Brown Adam
Frae sister and frae brither;

And they ha' banish'd [him] Brown Adam
Frae the flow'r o' a' his kin;
An' he 's bigget a bow'r i' the good green wood

O Love that wilt not let me go,
I rest my weary soul in thee;
I give thee back the life I owe,
That in thine ocean depths its flow
May richer, fuller be.

O Light that flowest all my way,
I yield my flickering torch to thee;
My heart restores its borrowed ray,
That in thy sunshine's blaze its day
May brighter, fairer be.

O Joy that seekest me through pain,
I cannot close my heart to thee;
I trace the rainbow through the rain,
And feel the promise is not vain
That morn shall tearless be.

My love in her attire doth show her wit,
It doth so well become her:
For every season she hath dressings fit,
For winter, spring, and summer.

No beauty she doth miss,
When all her robes are on;
But Beauty's self she is,
When all her robes are gone.

Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory;
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

Mark how the bashful morn in vain
Courts the amorous marigold
With sighing blasts and weeping rain,
Yet she refuses to unfold.
But when the planet of the day
Approacheth with his powerful ray,
Then she spreads, then she receives
His warmer beams into her virgin leaves.
So shalt thou thrive in love, fond boy;
If thy tears and sighs discover
Thy grief, thou never shalt enjoy
The just reward of a bold lover;

But when with moving accents thou
Shalt constant faith and service vow,
Thy Celia shall receive those charms

Many things thou hast given me, dear heart;
But one thing thou hast taken: that high dream
Of heaven as of a country that should seem
Beyond all glory that divinest art
Has pictured:—with this I have had to part
Since knowing thee;—how long, love, will the gleam
Of each day's sunlight on my pathway stream,
Richer than what seemed richest at the start?
Make my days happy, love; yet I entreat
Make not each happier than the last for me;
Lest heaven itself should dawn to me, complete
In joy, not the surprise I dreamed 't would be,

Madame, ye been alle beautee shrine
As fer as cercled is the mapemounde:
For as the crystal glorious ye shine,
And like ruby been youre cheekes rounde.
Therwith ye been so merye and so jocounde
That at a revel whan that I see you daunce
It is an oinement unto my wounde,
Though ye to me ne do no daliaunce.

For though I weepe of teres ful a tine,
Yit may that wo myn herte nat confounde;
Youre semy vois, that ye so smale outtwine,
Maketh my thought in joye and blis habounde:
So curteisly I go with love bounde
That to myself I saye in my penaunce,

Love scorch'd my finger, but did spare
The burning of my heart:
To signifie, in Love my share
Sho'd be a little part.

Little I love; but if that he
Wo'd but that heat recall:
That joynt to ashes burnt sho'd be,
Ere I wo'd love at all.