Encinctured with a twine of leaves,
That leafy twine his only dress,
A lovely Boy was plucking fruits,
By moonlight, in a wilderness.
The moon was bright, the air was free,

And fruits and flowers together grew
On many a shrub and many a tree:
And all put on a gentle hue,
Hanging in the shadowy air
Like a picture rich and rare.

It was a climate where, they say,
The night is more beloved than day.
But who that beauteous Boy beguiled,
That beauteous Boy to linger here?
Alone, by night, a little child,

Do not, O do not prize thy beauty at too high a rate;
Love to be loved whilst thou art lovely, lest thou love too late.
Frowns print wrinkles in thy brows,
At which spiteful age doth smile,
Women in their froward vows
Glorying to beguile.

Wert thou the only world's-admired, thou canst love but one;
And many have before been loved, thou art not loved alone.
Couldst thou speak with heavenly grace,
Sappho might with thee compare;
Blush the roses in thy face,
Rosamund was as fair.

Pride is the canker that consumeth beauty in her prime.

The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!
Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast,
Warm breath, light whisper, tender semi-tone,
Bright eyes, accomplish'd shape, and lang'rous waist!
Faded the flower and all its budded charms,
Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes,
Faded the shape of beauty from my arms,
Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise--
Vanish'd unseasonably at shut of eve,
When the dusk holiday--or holinight
Of fragrant-curtain'd love begins to weave
The woof of darkness thick, for hid delight;

C HLORIS , when I to thee present
The cause of all my discontent;
And shew that all the wealth that can
Flow from this little world of man,
Is nought but Constancy and Love,
Why will you other objects prove?

O do not cozen your desires
With common and mechanick fires:
That picture which you see in gold,
In every Shop is to be sold,
And Diamonds of richest prize
Men only value with their eyes.

But look upon my loyal heart,
That knows to value every part:
And loves thy hidden virtue more

As a lad I never had any idea of the taste of sorrow,
But loved to go up the tallest towers.
Loved to go up the tallest towers,
To compose new verses simulating sorrow.

Now that of sorrow I have tasted my fill,
I hesitate on the verge of utterance.
I hesitate on the verge of utterance,
And would rather say,
What a nice cool autumn, with tints lovely and mellow!

——Bird of the wilderness,
——Blithesome and cumberless,
Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!
——Emblem of happiness,
——Blest is thy dwelling-place—
O to abide in the desert with thee!

——Wild is thy lay and loud,
——Far in the downy cloud,
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.
——Where, on thy dewy wing,
——Where art thou journeying?
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

——O'er fell and fountain sheen,
——O'er moor and mountain green,
O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,
——Over the cloudlet dim,

Ah, pity love where'er it grows!
See how in me it overflows
In dripping eyes and dropping nose.

So strange a thing is seldom seen:
My age is dull, my love is keen;
Above I'm grey, but elsewhere green.

Aloof, perhaps I court and prate;
But something near I would be at,
Though I'm so old I scarce know what.

Shame checks our first attempts; but then 'tis prov'd,
Sins first dislik'd, are after that belov'd.

Darling, my own dear, ownest love,
Shall I put on a dress of white,
A red, red rose in my raven hair,
And meet you at the gate to-night?

By the garden gate that is arched with elms,
With majestic elms tall,
Where night-birds their sweetest melodies croon,
And so softly their love-mates call.

Say, darling, will you greet me with a kiss,
Will you be my love as of yore?
Will you talk of the bliss of our future days,
And tell me you love me more?

And shall we walk down the garden path,
Under the sparkling star-lit sky,

Comes the New Year; wailing the north winds blow;
In her cold, lonely grave my dead love lies;
Dead lies the stiffened earth beneath the snow,
And blinding sleet blots out the desolate skies;
I stand between the living and the dead;
Hateful to me is life, hateful is death;
Her life was sad, and on that narrow bed
She will not turn, nor wake with human breath.
I kneel between the evil and the good;
The struggle o'er, this one sweet faith have I—
Though life and death be dimly understood,
She loved me; I loved her; love cannot die;