Truth, be more precious to me than the eyes
Of happy love; burn hotter in my throat
Than passion; and possess me like my pride;
More sweet than freedom; more desired than joy;
More sacred than the pleasing of a friend.

True friendship unfeignid
Doth rest unrestrainid,
No terror can tame it:
Not gaining, nor losing,
Nor gallant gay glosing,
Can ever reclaim it.
In pain, and in pleasure,
The most truest treasure
That may be desirid,
Is loyal love deemid,
Of wisdom esteemid
And chiefly requirid.

True-blue the salmon—from his sally
Back to the redds he'll roam.
When weary of the towns' stale tally
Lovely to look to home.

The trouble with you is
You think all I want to do
Is get you into bed
And make love with you.

And that's not true!

I was just trying to make friends.
All I wanted to do
Was get into bed
With you and make

Love with you.

Who was that little bird we saw towering upside down
This afternoon on that pine cone, on the edge of a cliff,
In the snow? Wasn't he charming? Yes, he was, now,
Now, now,
Just take it easy.

I love to see the big white moon,
A-shining in the sky;
I love to see the little stars,
When the shadow clouds go by.

I love the rain drops falling
On my roof-top in the night;
I love the soft wind's sighing,
Before the dawn's gray light.

I love the deepness of the blue,
In my Lord's heaven above;
But better than all these things I think,
I love my lady love.

THE YOUNG GIRL

Even as a child that weeps,
Lulled by the love it keeps,
My grief lies back and sleeps.

Yes, it is Love bears up
My soul on his spread wings,
Which the days would else chafe out
With their infinite harassings.
To quicken it, he brings
The inward look and mild
That thy face wears, my child.

As in a gilded room
Shines 'mid the braveries
Some wild-flower, by the bloom

Awake, he loved their voices,
And wove them into his rhyme;
And the music of their laughter
Was with him all the time.
Though he knew the tongues of nations,
And their meanings all were dear,
The prattle and lisp of a little child
Was the sweetest for him to hear.

Too late, alas! I must confess,
— You need not arts to move me;
Such charms by nature you possess,
— 'Twere madness not to love ye.

Then spare a heart you may surprise,
— And give my tongue the glory
To boast, though my unfaithful eyes
— Betray a tender story.

In pity first to human kind,
Love taught the art of writing;
But soon deceit stepped in, we find,
And taught man false inditing.

False vows, false words, nay e'en false tears,
Soon after were invented;
And Love from each account appears
Almost to have repented

That he disclosed the magic art,
At first for gods intended,
By which he thought the virgin heart
Would be so much befriended.

What vows, what sighs on paper flow,
In words as sweet as honey!
They melt away like now-fall'n snow,

In the heart of June, love,
You and I together,
On from dawn till noon, love,
Laughing with the weather;
Blending both our souls, love,
In the selfsame tune,
Drinking all life holds, love,
In the heart of June.

In the heart of June, love,
With its golden weather,
Underneath the moon, love,
You and I together.
Ah! how sweet to seem, love,
Drugged and half aswoon
With this luscious dream, love,
In the heart of June.